


Headlines

by TrouserFreeTuesday



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Eventual Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, F/M, M/M, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 94,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6464935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrouserFreeTuesday/pseuds/TrouserFreeTuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noelle Trevelyan is a journalist on the fast track, until an avalanche knocks her back to a position in the entertainment section of Skyhold Quarterly. Desperate to get back into the game, Noelle leaps headfirst into the first opportunity she gets and finds her herself rushing into the dark side of Orlesian politics. Meanwhile, her best friend is embroiled in the red lyrium trade plaguing New York City and Noelle can't seem to stop flirting with her handsome boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_SKYHOLD QUARTERLY_ **

 

**_18th November 1946_ **

**_BREAKING: HAVEN DISASTER_ **

 

_Disaster has struck the political conference being held at Haven Resort near Avalanche Lake. As mentioned in the previous weeks, delegates from the world over had come to discuss trade and foreign policies. It is not the first meeting of it’s kind since the war ended, but restoring normalcy is a process that takes much time and work. Unfortunately, some time yesterday evening an avalanche struck, the first since ‘42. Details are scarce at this time, at this moment we do not know if any survived - though the search and rescue groups have been working steadily since the snow settled. Many are believed to be missing, and experts do not expect survivors. The cabins were made to withstand the cold, not tons of snow crashing down upon them, but we must all remain hopeful. One of our own, journalist Noelle Trevelyan, was one of the correspondents at the meetings and we have yet heard no word from either.  We all pray for her safe return, and will update the public as soon as we know more._

  
  
  


**January 7th, 1947**  


Noelle sits at her desk, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the Skyhold Quarterly office. The phones are almost constantly ringing, and as a result everyone is shouting into their phones in attempt to be heard over everyone else. It sounds a bit like that moment before a symphony starts, when every instrument is being tuned without regard for the others. For most people the noise is a bit overwhelming; some poor guests sitting in the waiting area look decidedly uncomfortable. Noelle, on the other hand, loves it. It’s the sound of something big, each phone call had the potential to be an exciting story just waiting to be told.

It’s just a shame Noelle’s phone isn’t ringing.

Her penny-loafers dangle off her toes, an opened drawer serving as a temporary footrest. She chews, absently, on the tip of a pen, and stares at her typewriter. There’s only so many times one can review a show at The Hanged Man. They may get some of the best jazz performers from all over New York, but Noelle is beginning to run out of adjectives to describe jazz music. She’s stuck at “sad, but smooth, piano accompanied Lady Leliana’s lovely dulcet tones”, and stuck with the feeling she’s used all of those words before.

“Cassandra.” Noelle sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Cassandra makes a noncommittal sound from her desk, waving a hand vaguely in the air. All Noelle ever sees of Cassandra these days is the back of her pinstripe suit, and the tight bunch of her shoulders. And the occasional glimpse of one of those romance novels tucked away in the bottom drawer of her desk, but Noelle is not allowed to mention that. After a moment, there’s a ding and Cassandra slams the typewriter carriage back.

“What?” She looks angry to be interrupted. Typically, her gaze should strike fear into anyone’s heart. Noelle, though, knows this means something good. Cassandra doesn’t get worked up about just anything.

“I was going to ask,” Noelle says, rising and walking over to Cassandra, “How it is exactly that I got stuck with this ridiculous entertainment section.”

“Well,” Cassandra says, “I suspect that either Leliana bribed our editor-in-chief, or that Mr. Rutherford is still displeased about the…Haven incident.”

Noelle rolls her eyes. “It was hardly an incident.”

Cassandra continues after a huff, “It was a cave-in.”

“And we got the story of the year from it.” Noelle rests her hip against Cassandra’s desk. Her arms are stiff and sore as she stretches them above her head. Just how long has she been sitting at her desk? “Now, how’s your story going? You’re still working on that Seeker’s Society thing, right? Come on, Cassandra, give me details. I’m desperate for a good story. Are they embezzling money, a front for a drug operation, secretly the forces behind Allied victories in the war?”

After Haven, Noelle had come back to work with a new position in charge of Skyhold’s less than illustrious Entertainment section. It’s dreadfully boring stuff.

Cassandra snorts. “Nothing quite so scandalous, I assure you. Most of their money is going into relief efforts overseas, not drugs.”

Noelle pouts. “Pity.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t share your sadness.”

Noelle shrugs. Scandals always sell better than headlines like “Secret Organization Not As Suspicious As Initially Thought”, but Skyhold isn’t in the business of selling scandal. That is, of course, why they work in a building with possibly the worst heating in the whole city, and why half the furniture is at least twenty years old. “The war’s been over for years. What projects are they funding?”

“Lots of people were displaced. Our source said he hadn’t seen anything quite like it since the Great War, and I’m inclined to believe he’s right. We’ve all seen the photos. The Seeker’s main effort seems to be reuniting families, and from what they’ve told me, it’s going quite well. How, exactly, they’ve been allowed access to so many personal records is where I’m stuck. I don’t know many government’s so eager to give up information willingly.”

“Money, I would hazard. Just like it is everywhere else.”

“You're probably right,” Cassandra concedes. “Though the implications of that are…unpleasant.”

Another phone rings from across the office, and suddenly Varric is shouting at them from across the office. “Cassandra! Get Lucius to stop calling my extension.”

Without moments, Cassandra’s phone starts ringing and she rolls her eyes. “Lunch later?” She asks Noelle,  before answering her phone. Noelle can barely get in a nod before Cassandra has turned her chair away to face her notepad. “Hello? Ah, yes, Lucius.”

Noelle returns, unwilling, to her desk.

 

 

 

Even though Skyhold Quarterly passes itself off as a hard-hitting publication, it can’t thrive on just investigative journalism. So there’s a locals section, promoting such world class news as “Mrs. Eggerton has been reunited with her cats, Sniffles and Pookie, thanks to help of a kind neighbour” and “Sten’s Bakery looking for hardworking employee with history in public service”. The locals section is lovingly handcrafted from letters sent to Skyhold Quarterly. Fairbanks is in charge of this process, though even he admits to simply omitting anything vulgar, and instead spending his time doing literally anything and everything else. 

Varric is in charge of the weekly serial. For anyone craving small increments of stories at a time, this is the section for you. Various writers typically fill in for the duration of a story, published roughly a chapter at a time. Noelle has never been sure who their target demographic is for the this section, especially since it’s no longer the 1800’s. Who even bothers reading serials anymore? People can afford to publish books, or just listen to the damned things on their radios. Lately, though, Varric Tethras himself (the man, the myth, the legend) has taken charge of writing the latest story. Swords and Shields, it’s called. Noelle isn’t a fan of it, too much swooning and not enough action, but the response from the general public has been overwhelmingly positive.

Then there’s sports, personals, and last (and, in some opinions, least), the entertainment section. Noelle’s been head of the section for four months, two weeks and three days (not that she’s counting). What this means is Noelle spends a lot of time sitting around fancy lounges or swanky theaters, and not a lot of time asking questions or investigating much of anything. See, the head of the entertainment section at Skyhold typically does event reviews. Like if Philiam, a Bard threw his guitar at a heckler at a show, it’d be Noelle to write about it. Two other girls cover entertainment, a mousy young thing named  Ms.Ritts who does film and theater reviews, and Ellendra, who does articles on celebrity gossip. Sometimes Noelle helps the girls with their articles, correcting grammatical errors or suggesting angles to take things. The girls are mostly self-sufficient, however, and have been for some time. Noelle’s predecessor was actually in the office so infrequently Noelle couldn’t point her out in a line-up. Ritts and Ellendra barely need supervision. So, really, what Noelle does is spent a lot of time at The Hanged Man. 

The Hanged Man is not what Noelle would describe as a classy bar. It’s an older building, with it’s origins dating back as an Inn before prohibition. It’s missed the architectural advancements of the twentieth century, seemingly holding together through force of will alone. The street front has been redone, however. The Hanged Man sports a new brick facade and a neon sign proclaiming: “The Hanged Man Hotel and Lounge.” It flickers and crackles in the dusk light. 

The bar itself is located in the back, through a small door in a cramped alley. The door is made of tin, with no sign marking the entrance. Only a small group of patrons milling about outside suggest that this door means anything. Noelle breezes past them. The door has a small, covered, hole at about eye level. In days gone by, one would have been able to slide it open and warily ask for passwords. As it is, rust has had it’s merry way with the door and it creaks as Noelle walks in. Sometimes she wonders what it would feel like to have to sneak into places like this. To need a password simply to get a drink. 

The interior always smells strongly of booze. Not simply because it’s a bar currently, but possibly because booze has seeped into the very floor of the building. The wood creaks and gives uneasily as Noelle walks through the small entrance and down the cramped stairwell.  

The host stands at the bottom of the stairs, behind a tall wood podium. The podium looks like it’s been dragged through a few alleys to get it here. The wood is scuffed and beaten, the only sign work has been done to is the “HM” burned onto the post. The host is a stout man with a thick mustache, and he smiles warmly as Noelle descends. 

“Ah, Ms. Trevelyan! Welcome! You’ll find your booth is ready for you. Is Mr. Pavus accompanying you today?”

Oh, good. She’s a regular now. 

“No, I’m alone tonight,” Noelle says. “So you’ll have to send the handsome singers elsewhere tonight.”

This gets a laugh, and he waves her through. 

The basement’s walls are faded brick, with posters of previous performers on the walls. The room continues to the right of the host stand, a short hallway leading to an open room. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of liquor. Curtains hang from the wooden beamed ceilings, framing a wooden stage along the far wall. The stage continues a few feet out from the wall, and ends in a small half-circle and a lone microphone. Small tables are scattered around it, most already seating guests. The lighting is deliberately dim, swinging pendant lamps casting shadows across the room. Noelle’s preferred seat is the end booth, both as far away from the stage and as close to the bar as possible. And sure enough, a candle is lit on the table and a Bellamy Scotch Sour is sitting on a coaster. 

Noelle isn’t sure if this is bribery. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to change her review, but normally it’s not this subtle. It’s a five slipped into the menu as she sits down, or sweet-talking singers trying to invite her backstage after the show. Not a lone drink, that she may still have to pay for. She suspects this is just simply the way they are. The bartender, Corff, knows almost everyone’s names and orders by heart. He chats up a young couple sitting on barstools, asking questions that step beyond polite conversations. How’s the baby, is he still trying to eat the cat? She’s sure if she sat along the bar, he’d know her well enough to ask detailed questions too. Except, for Noelle, it may be more like: How’s the crippling boredom treating you? Oh, not well? Well, how are you adjusting to missing your pinky finger?

For whatever reason, Haven left Noelle with two permanent reminders: a thin scar across her forehead, and an amputated pinky. Somehow the rest of her body recovered from the frostbite, but her smallest finger had simply had had enough. Typically Noelle brushes off the queries with a “still getting used to it”, but frankly, it’s a real pain the ass. It feels like her finger is itching some times, even though it’s not there anymore, and it’s a real bitch re-learning how to knit.

When the first performer walks out, he greets like audience like old friends. He steps up to the microphone, pushing back a wavy mop of jet black hair. Behind him, a small band sets up their instruments. The cellist seems to tip beneath his instruments weight, and the trumpet player laughs into his drink. The pianist shakes her head at both of them.

“Well, good evenin’ ladies and gents.” The singer says, leaning into the microphone. “You all look mighty cozy down there. Now, I think I recognize a few familiar faces, so welcome back, and you can tell my mother to stop paying you to show up. And for the unfamiliar faces, I’m Remi Vascal. You may have heard of me, and if you haven’t, you’re about to. And, if you want to make a quick buck, go find my mother. I’m just kidding, of course, don’t go do that. You don’t need to know where I got my ugly mug from.”

This gets a laugh from the crowd.

“I hope you all are having a lovely evening, I know I most definitely am. Who doesn’t want to their spend their evenings in a damp cellar with these chuckleheads struggling with their instruments behind me?”

Behind him, the cellist protests. “Hey!” And then nearly trips over his case.

“And if you’re not having a lovely evening, I promise that once we’re done you’ll be swinging on a star. And, on that note-” Remi turns back towards the man, “Boys, you ready?”

They start unevenly, with the trumpet blasting a loud sharp note. The rest of the band flinches, and then follows along. 

“We’re gonna start with a bit of a familiar song, and if you folks like my version better feel free to let old Bing know.”

Remi starts crooning his set, and Noelle settles in with a notepad and pen. He has better stage presence than some of the other performers she’s seen in the last few months. There was one at at the Stork Club who spent most of his songs nearly wrapped around the microphone, doubled over as if shielding himself from the audience. And he’d been older than this Remi Vascal. It doesn’t take a genius to notice than Remi’s been drinking, however. Give just about anyone enough drinks and they could feign confidence for a bit. Remi’s swaying, slurring, but acting charming enough no one seems to mind. 

As the set progresses, more people wander in. The lounge still isn’t packed, but then it never is on Thursday’s. An young couple sit in the table across from Noelle, and she overhears all of their weekend plans. The song’s start off on a high note, a swinging beat that leaves everyone tapping their toes. Even Noelle has to fight off the urge to start dancing. It’s a sort of music you’d dance too, the kind that almost dances with you. The tune seems to pick up your feet and carry them away with it.  There appear to be two in the whole bar that aren’t enjoying it, a pair of men sitting in a shadowy booth in fancy suits. It wouldn’t be the first time the Hanged Man had been the site of a seedy business deal, but they don’t look like they’re waiting for anything. They’re watching Remi intently, too intently.  If anything, Remi probably owes the wrong somebodies something. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Noelle takes a sip of her drink and taps her pen on the table. Remi’s a good performer, that she will be sure to mention. The band however seem a little unprepared. The cellist looks frazzled, the pianist looks hungover, and the trumpet player is roaring to go regardless of whether or not anyone else was. Remi finishes his set with a slow, romantic, version of Witchcraft that has all the couples in the place holding hands and making doe eyes at each other. Noelle sighs.

“Want some company, Pinky?”  

“Are you asking, or offering, Tethras?”

There’s a rumour around the office that Varric lives in the Hanged Man, and the more Noelle comes here the more she’s inclined to believe it. She goes all over New York for shows, but she always seem to wind up here. She’s only required to review one show a month, but she seems to wind up here every Tuesday. Normally, though, Dorian is here and becomes a social thing instead of a work thing. With the added perk of having an generic review just about ready for the paper the next day. Every Tuesday, without fail, though, Varric Tethras is around. Much in the same way air is around, floating about the room somewhat aimlessly. 

It doesn’t seem possible for a man to spend as much time in a bar as Varric. At least not without developing a serious drinking problem. 

Varric grins, and slides in across from Noelle. He has a half-full drink in his hand. “Enjoying the show?”

“Yeah,” Noelle says. “He’s no Sinatra, but he’s not bad.”

“Glowing praise,” Varric says with a laugh. “Tennessee William’s no Shakespeare, but yeah, he’s alright.”

“Who’s Tennessee Williams?”

Varric frowns. “Pinky, really?”

Noelle shrugs defensively. “I’m not big on fiction, Varric, you know that.” 

Why bother sitting around with a book about made-up heros and adventure when there’s real adventure and stories outside?  Just thinking about sitting down with a book makes her feel restless. She has no idea how Varric does it. He’s all about the stories and the grand heroes. It’s never suited her. 

“He’s not-” Varric starts, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

The stage has been cleared, with the exception of the small black piano. A familiar red-head is seated on the edge of the stage, chatting casually to a couple seated near the table. She’s dressed in a black, sparkling evening dress. Long white gloves cover most her arms, almost meeting the thin straps of her dress. 

“You know,” Varric remarks, noticing Leliana as well. “I’m surprised you’re still showing up to these things.”

“How do you mean?” Noelle blinks.

“You were given the easiest gig there is, if we ignore the sports section-”

“I think most people do.” Skyhold Quarterly is not known for it’s dazzling sports coverage. 

“Entertainment is pretty low on the rung, let’s face it.” Varric has a point. Most of the lighter sections are included more for the sake of posterity than anything else. Their comics section is one step away from being drawn by a small child from the Bronx.  “You could probably submit the exact same thing every week, with just the names changed, and no one would notice.” Varric says this idly, tracing his finger along the rim of his class. But Noelle recognizes the traces of challenge in his voice, they way he makes his voice too casual, the way his head tilts ever so slightly to the side. She’s been tricked before. 

“I’d like to keep my job, Varric. Even if it means using all the synonyms for ‘smooth’ I can think of.”

“Of course. Just let me know if you start to run out of options.”

 

 

 

Wednesday’s at Skyhold are the busiest. Everyone is rushing around to get things ready for publication, popping in and out of Cullen, the editor-in-chief’s, office all day long to revise and replan. Noelle’s not in the same rush. Despite the winter air, the window behind her is open. It’s been broken for months, open just enough to let a chill in and no one has figured out how to close the gap. For a time, they’d tried closing it with a towel but that had just been frozen over. So now Noelle just sits arounds with her sweater or a coat draped over her shoulders. Sometimes, though, the open window lets in the exciting sounds of the outside world. 

There’s a fire down the road, the sound of the alarms has Noelle’s feet twitching and ready to go. It’s just the dimmest of sounds, of course, the commotion of the office drowns out the hollering of the siren’s. This just means that the fire is nearby. Within walking distance, even. Probably. If Noelle had to bet, it was the Cathedral just down the block. The Priest has a frankly negligent approach to fire safety. But then, maybe it’s Sten’s Bakery. A new hire could have forgot something in the oven.

Noelle glances at the clock. It’s too early to excuse herself for lunch, and she can’t exactly walk out of the office today, It is a mad dash to ensure everything is ready for print, which generally involves a lot of shouting at people from across the room. Cassandra is bunkered down, head low, visibly trying to block out the noise. Fairbanks, at the desk opposite Noelle’s, is shouting into a phone about missing letters. Across the room, Varric is loudly chatting to Dennet, Cullen's secretary, about publishing rights. Noelle is facing a small pile of reviews that she has yet to go through. Ritts and Ellendra had put them on her desk bright and early this morning, so really she should have gone through them by now. There's a review of the new Gregory Peck film, as well as a review of the new play at the Adelphi. And it’s almost impressively unexciting. Noelle finishes the last sentence on Remi Vascal, hitting the last key on her typewriter with an air of finality.

“While Vascal is young (certainly not a downside for all those young women looking for a show this week), he has potential. He lacks the experience of Crosby or Sinatra, experienced veterans of the stage, but if Vascal continues  on such a path, perhaps the next time we’ll see him is performing at the Stork. - Noelle Trevelyan”

She adds it to the pile.  She stares at the pile of papers on her desk. They’re probably fine. Ellandra and Ritts know how to write. And, if she gets all of the paper in early she can go check out what’s going on down the road, and maybe get a good story out of it.

She gathers the stack of papers in her hands, and sets off towards Cullen’s office. Dennet, doesn’t even rise to stop her. He doesn’t have the chance. Noelle breezes past like she’s meant to be there, and all Dennit manages is a “he’s on the phone-” before Noelle is slamming open the door. She pauses, for a second, in the doorway, right around the point when it’s too late to have second thoughts. 

Cullen barely glances up. A phone is tucked in the crook of his neck, and Cullen is speaking in low, serious tones. Everything he does has been seriously lately. Noelle can vaguely remember a time when she had just started when Cullen hadn’t been absolutely miserable everyday, but not recently. It’s gotten worse in the past week. There’s a crease in his brow that may actually become a permanent indent soon. His glasses are pushed up, holding back a wave of tightly gelled hair. “Look, I’m not particularly concerned what his excuse is this time. I don’t care if he’s about to sell his mother.” He pauses, waves a finger towards Noelle and mouths ‘just a minute’. Noelle waits impatiently. Whatever steam she had used to storm in is slowly leaving now, and she doesn’t like it. She can almost picture it escaping through her ears as if she’s in some Disney sketch.  She makes sure that her shoes tap extra loudly on the tiled floor. Cullen flinches with each tap tap.

“No, no. I understand. Thanks for telling me, Emeric. I’ll be looking into it. I’ll call you back later. Yes, of course. You too.” He hangs up the phone, and rests both hands on the desk. His office is an area of controlled chaos, papers scattered like he'd left the window open overnight. Still, he never seems to lose anything. A draft sits in front of him, the front page covered in red pen already. It's lying on a bed of other drafts, none of which look ready to be sent up to the printers.

“Ms. Trevelyan, may I help you?”

“What’s the matter?” Noelle asks. Cullen looks stressed, a narrow crease between his brows and his fists clenching and unclenching on the desk. “Varric’s story late again?”

“No-Well, as a matter of fact, yes, it is. But that wasn’t what the call was about. Now, what can I do for you?”

Noelle drops the completed entertainment section on his desk, and it lands with a soft thump. Cullen glances at the paper, and then up at her.  “It’s done. All of it. Edited and all. And since everything is done, there’s no reason to keep me here on desk duty. There’s a fire just down the road, we could be the first newspaper on the scene.”

Cullen shifts forward. His chair, old and weathered, creaks under his weight.  “And I suppose that you could be the first reporter on the scene?” He arches an eyebrow. Noelle may be imagining the wry twist to his lips.

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“Then, I’m sorry, but no.”

Noelle starts to argue, but Cullen cuts her off. “If I agreed, if you went, and found someone was in danger inside the burning building - would you run inside?”

“Of course.” Noelle hardly pauses to think.

Cullen nods, unsurprised, and Noelle has a suspicion she just walked into a trap. 

"Ms. Trevelyan, I am not in the business of haphazardly risking my employees for the sake of a story." Mr. Rutherford frowns. “You’ve already been in the hospital once recently because of work. I admire your tenacity, Ms. Trevelyan, but you can sit this one out. 

"I am not in the business of sitting around writing about lounge singers.” Noelle jabs a finger into Cullen’s desk. “ I didn’t go to London for fluff pieces, Mr Rutherford.” 

"After your previous incident, I chose a story that was much less likely to have you killed or maimed."

Like her safety is  _ his _ responsibility. Noelle scoffs. She’s a grown woman, perfectly capable of accessing danger on her own, thank you very much. 

"If I write one more word of this, that may actually be preferable!" Noelle throws her hands up in the air.

Mr. Rutherford frowns. "Really, Ms. Trevelyan? After Haven you're about to let a fluff piece piece do you in?"

"I'd feed myself to hogs if that’s what it would take. Come on, Mr. Rutherford. We both know I'm the best you've got. Give me something good! You have Dorian doing a piece on the mob, for God's sake. Give him his article on Greek architecture, he'd name his first born after you. He's more suited for that than investigative journalism."

"Dorian is on the Chargers because, as I understand it, he has some personal connections to a member of the mob. Unless you're married to one, Ms. Trevelyan, I have no reason to change his assignment."

"Well then change mine!"

"No," Cullen says firmly, and Noelle bristles. Cullen arches his eyebrow, and to Noelle it looks like a challenge. "And if I hear another word about this, I can certainly arrange to put you in charge of our fashions page for a week or two. Belle certainly wouldn’t mind a vacation. As it stands, you're next assignment will be on your desk tomorrow morning." Cullen clears his throat and picks up his pen. ”Will that be all?"

Noelle glowers.  "Just for now, Mr. Rutherford."

She makes sure to slam the door behind her.

 

 

 

 

Varric doesn’t look concerned that his story is late. He’s sitting leisurely in the staff room, warm cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. If his shirt wasn’t buttoned to the collar, it would almost look like Varric is at home. Noelle essentially slams herself into the couch, sitting down so hard that Varric almost spills his coffee. It’s in a take out cup from the diner down the road. The coffee machine hasn’t worked here since last May. Noelle folds her arms over her chest. 

“How many people do you think read our entertainment section?” She asks. 

Varric takes a sip of his coffee. “Approximately none.”

Noelle pauses and evaluates the hole she’s about to dig herself into. Then she continues on regardless. It starts, like many other things, with two simple words: “Wanna bet?”

Varric grins. “You’re on, Pinky.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and update this somewhat regularly, I've got a bunch already written, but you know how life is. I'll try my best!


	2. Chapter 2

_**SKYHOLD QUARTERLY** _

 

 

_**January 30th, 1947** _

_**ENTERTAINMENT** _

_**PERFORMANCE ACCEPTABLE** _

_The singer performed admirably, clearly imitating one of those more popular singers. Their gentle voice hit most notes, and gave a romantic mood for the evening. The couples seemed more in love than ever before, swaying along to the music. The music was fun, an upbeat rhythm that made me want to pack up bags and move to New Orleans. The band seemed in good spirits, and seemed moderately drunk as well (as is the nature of most stage performers these days). The drinks may have, as well, been a factor in missed or wrong notes. Perhaps in the daylight hours they are modern virtuosos._

_The venue was, in all aspects, moderate. Moderately clean, moderately comfortable, moderately like my Grandmother’s Long Island Bungalow. The food was edible, which is the bare minimum of what anyone could ask of a dining establishment. It was a good experience._

_\- Noelle Trevelyan_

  


This has been the exact article published for three weeks. Three horrible, expensive weeks. Noelle’s lost twenty bucks on this stupid thing. It had been carefully tailored, over lunch with Varric, to create the vaguest, worst article ever written. Each week, until someone noticed and made a public complaint, Noelle would need to pay Varric $6.50. Negotiating it had been tricky; Varric had insisted couldn’t be too out there (that would catch people’s attention), and Noelle wanted it as ridiculous as possible (because she is not a millionaire). It had been funny at the time, with frustration fueling Noelle’s bad ideas. And she was positive, 100 percent sure, that someone would have to read it and notice. And yet, here she is, holding the third published copy of the entertainment section. And not a single complaint. Skyhold Quartely’s readers complain about _everything_. On his worse days, Fairbanks has taken to hanging the most banal complaints on the staff room wall and throwing tiny little darts at them. Where the darts came from in the first place is a mystery, but they have a permanent residence on the staff room wall. Sometimes hanging old complaints. For the past month it’s been a letter complaining about their weekly advertisement for Sten’s Bakery becaus Sten had once been rude to them.

Noelle had asked Cullen about the article, too. She’d stopped him in the office one day and asked if he’d read her piece yet (she framed it as wanting feedback about work), and Cullen had nodded, and said “It was good, I appreciate the hard work”. The thought makes Noelle bury her head in her hands. Even her boss doesn’t care about the entertainment section. Cullen has to read it. Proofreading is part of the editor-in-chief’s position, and even painstakingly hardworking Cullen doesn’t give a shit about the entertainment section. She can’t tell whether it makes her want to laugh or scream.

Varric wiggles the paper from across the room, smiling smugly. He rubs his thumb and index finger together, and Noelle scowls.

At this point, she barely has to show up to work anymore. Or, she wouldn’t, if she didn’t already owe Varric about half of her rent money. The only bright side, so far, is that Noelle can properly enjoy the shows. She’s still going, of course. Media gets free entrance to a lot of venues, and that’s a perk she isn’t intending on giving up anytime soon. And now she can have a good time, instead of sitting in a booth in the back with a notebook.

It’s been working out for Dorian, as well. In what free time he has (most of it is now spent traipsing after the mob), he ‘generously’ offered to be Noelle’s plus one. It’s not often he’s in the office these days, besides routine meetings with Cullen to make sure everything is on track. Today, however, he saunters (Dorian does not simply walk anywhere) in around half past eleven, and makes a direct line for Noelle’s desk.

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Capone,” Noelle says. “Back from his life of crime.”

At this, Dorian laughs. “The one and only. Tell me, how are things here? Has Tethras suckered you dry?” He leans his hip against Noelle’s desk, arms folding over his chest.

“Just about,” Noelle says. “And not a single complaint yet.”

“A pity, I imagine, more for your wallet than anything else.”

“You would not believe, Dorian. As a result, I can’t offer you lunch today.” Noelle says, as if she’s ever offered Dorian lunch (Though, in fact, she had once, shortly after Dorian had received some sort of awful letter from his father). Dorian’s relationship with his family is the only one slightly more strained than Noelle’s,. She, at least, still talks to them sometimes. That could have more to do with proximity than anything, her family lives just upstate. Dorian’s family is in England, busy being snobby diplomats. Presumably. Noelle’s never met either of them, something Dorian assures her is a good thing.

“Remind me why I ever come around here, again?” Dorian’s smile is warm.

“I thought you just enjoyed the smell of stale coffee like the rest of us.”

Dorian scrunches up his nose, as if just noticing the smell. It is somehow everywhere, as if the coffee itself had seeped into the wooden floors.  The whole office runs down to the Red Jenny if they need coffee. It has a similar perma-coffee stench, but is a little less chaotic than Skyhold Quarterly.  And the Red Jenny’s chaos is not Noelle’s problem. Though she hasn’t had much in the way of work related problems lately. A bit of chaos may do her some good.

“It must be part of it. It almost smells like home, actually. God, isn’t that sad?” Dorian shakes his head. “I actually just came by to check in with Cullen. You know how he worries. Then I’m afraid I have another engagement so I can’t stay and cause trouble with you.”

Noelle isn’t entirely sure, but it sounds like Cassandra murmurs “Thank God” from her desk.”

“However,” Dorian adds, “I hear Lady Leliana is performing at the Copacabana tonight. I think this time she has back up dancers, it should be quite a show. Should I pick you up at seven?”

 

 

The Copacabana is the place to be. Frank Sinatra said, once, you haven’t made it until you’ve played there. The Copa is a high-class nightclub in Uptown Manhattan, the kind of place Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis hang around. It’s swanky waiters in vests and ties, with a cloth draped over their arm, and people sipping on champagne while laughing casually about the misfortune of the lower classes.

Noelle has never gotten lucky enough to catch any celebrities, but each time she arrives there’s a flicker of hope. Instead, she’s greeted by tables full of unfamiliar faces. The tables are crowded together, leaving barely enough to squeeze past to reach the other side of the room. The stage and small dance floor are clear, but the manager keeps a watchful eye on the area. Soon, the stage will be filled by the Copa girls performing one of their infamous numbers, then the audience would be able to get up and dance. Dorian and Noelle don’t have the best seats in the house, as they are neither wealthy or famous enough to afford anything of the sort. It suits them well enough, the table is between the tall, fake palms that fill the building. The trunks don’t block their view of the stage, at least. Plastic leaves hover over their heads, and mambo music plays softly over the speakers. At the moment, the general din of conversation and clanking of dishes overpower any attempts at ambient music. Their order is taken quickly, before their waiter vanishes into the crowd.

The Copa’s ‘Latin’ theme ends at the menu. ‘The Copacabana has the best Chinese food in all of New York’. Noelle hasn’t personally verified it, but she is a great fan of their chow mein. Then, most of the food here is good. That’s not the normal reason people go, however. You can get chow mein at any old Chinese place down the street, and it’s easy enough to buy a mambo record at the store. Noelle could recreate that atmosphere at home. For the added conversation, she just crack her window just enough to hear her neighbors all talking (loudly. So so loudly) in the courtyard.

What she doesn’t have at home is the Copa girls. Long lines of chorus girls in skimpy brassieres and glittery skirts, that dance with a fluidity Noelle can only envy. These girls are the trademark. Sure, they have some big names playing here, but those big names could also go across town and play at the Latin Quarter. When the Copa girls file out onto the stage - today in glittery strapless tops, and small, bright shorts, that catches your attention. The shorts are black, while all the tops are the same shade of gold.

“How much do you think their hats weigh?” Dorian asks. Each girl has their hair tucked into a scarf, and it looks like a fruit basket was stylishly overturned onto it.

“Depends on the hat,” Noelle replies. “That girl with the pineapple, though, will likely have a stiff neck in the morning.”

The girls stand up straight despite the strain their hats must be placing on their necks. It’s everything else that moves, arms swinging smoothly, legs lifting into kicks higher than Noelle could even imagine. All while smiling a pleasant, cheery smile.

“God, I can only imagine.” Dorian says. “There’s probably a reason that no one is cavorting about with a watermelon sitting on top of their heads like that.”

Noelle snorts.

Going out with Dorian is fun. It’s a sort of lighter fare, for lack of a better word. It lacks the pressure of a date, of dressing to impress and saying the right things and all the nerves that come with. Dorian cracks jokes as lightly as ever, but Noelle notices he’s pointedly vague about where exactly he’s been spending his time. She feels a twinge of worry and tries to shake off. He’ll just laugh at her if she mentions it, and he is a grown man. She is not a worried mother hen, though sometimes she feels as if she should act like one.

Noelle finds herself continually scanning the crowd. There is just so much happening. Groups of friends laughing and joking over a meal, others sharing in soft conversations, a few sitting in stony silence. And there, just across the room and filing in through the main door, are two men in suits that look strangely like the men from the Hanged Man so many weeks ago. As they grow closer, a waiter leading them by in the quest to find a table with room, they look more and more familiar.

“Friends of yours?” Dorian asks, following her gaze.

“Not quite. I think they were at the Hanged Man for Leliana’s show a few weeks ago, they didn’t look like they enjoyed it all too much. It’s a little strange they’re coming again.”

“And they missed the showgirls, such a shame. We’re in luck, however, it looks like they’re coming back.”

And sure enough, the waiter (now flustered) is leading the men towards a small table close to Noelle’s. The men’s expression is still the same. Stiff, uncomfortable, bored. Not the usual fare. It’s a look she’s seen before, once or twice, on a man who looked like he was dragged out by his coattails. Even then, it was only the one of the pair, not both. Noelle doubts they’re here for the show. Dorian shifts his chair over, leaning in so he’s speaking almost directly into Noelle’s ear.

“I suppose we’re eavesdropping?”

Noelle only nods.

This close, they are more than just shadowy figures in another corner of the Hanged Man. One man is taller than the other, barrel-chested and balding, and sits down heavily, as if his legs simply cannot take anymore of this walking business. The second is only shorter by an inch, maybe two, but he’s thin and lithe and moves rather more gently. Neither order food, or drinks, and take to sitting in a glum sort of silence until Lady Leliana takes the stage. She is, in no sense of the word, a proper lady. Leliana herself has claimed to not have a single drop of royal blood in her, it’s just a stage name. Something about fostering the ‘Orleasian’ image, Noelle would guess. For a time, back during the war, Leliana had been fond of French and Orleasian ballads, but those days seem to have passed. Tonight she takes the stage and sings something jazzy and American. She’s good at it, her accent hardly comes through when she sings. She’s got some voice, too. _The_ Voice, some would argue. Every now and again she crops up at some smaller venue but at this point she’s become a national phenomenon. Typically, going out to these things, the crowd takes a bit to get up and dance. The artist needs to coerce them, convince them that their music is worth dancing too. Leliana doesn’t appear to need to convince them. Before she can even start singing, couples are slowly moving towards the dance floor.

The tall one groans. "How many of these things are we to go too, Harold?" He asks. His accent is thick, it sounds French to Noelle’s ears.

"Orlesian," Dorian says confidently.

"How can you tell?" Noelle’s never had the ear for accents.

"It’s a bit like a French accent, only marginally worse.”

"As many as it takes," Harold says, sounding equally Orleasian. "The Empress  wants the best. Right now, I think Leliana would most suit the Empress’s tastes. She is, after all, one of our own."

So two Orleasians walk into a bar. It’s a bit like the set-up to some old war joke.

Dorian is frowning, slightly. “You don’t suppose this is about _the_ Empress, do you?”

There aren’t a lot of empresses running around these days. The thought hits Noelle a moment after Dorian. _The_ Empress. The Orleasian Empress, Celene, has been an elusive figure for much of her rule, but it hardly helped matters that her country was surrounding by war for much of the past century. There’s been rumours, flitting about from reporter to reporter, than she’s been planning a visit to America. Amends to be made after the war, or coming to reunite with an old flame, or for more nefarious purposes. It had, of course, been just rumours. Noelle herself had dismissed it. Celene caught a lot of flack for remaining neutral during the war, and to the point of turning away scared refugees. From the looks of things, Harold and his companion are hardly here for fun.

Noelle shrugs. “I can’t see who else it could be about.”

The gears in her head are turning, fingers drumming along the table. This is likely the best confirmation they will get until any official release is published, Orlais isn’t exactly known for being forthcoming. Folks at the Times had reached out for answers on many occasions. They’d been shut down each time. She could go tell Cullen tomorrow about this, let them announce it early. But that’s hardly a story. It’s about a sentence, it’ll catch everyone’s eyes for a few days but really it’s barely news.

What is news, however, is a local celebrity being chosen to perform. The trouble is, overhearing two men talking at a club is hardly the most reliable source.

“Oh dear,” Dorian says. An amused expression flickers on Dorian’s face. “Dare I ask what you’re planning?”

“I think I’m in the mood for a burger,” Noelle says instead. “After this, how does the Red Jenny sound?”

 

 

 

For a 24-Hour joint, the Red Jenny is surprisingly well-maintained. When or who cleans it is a mystery, the whole of the waitstaff always seem to be too busy talking to the customers to actually be working. Even at ten in the evening, the place is still comfortably busy. The mood is lazy, and slow, but the room is full of the clatter of dishes and easy conversations. Skyhold Quarterly has an unofficial table, a big round one in the center of the place. Cassandra is at their table already, hunched over a book.

Sera glides past them, tray of coffee balanced on one hand. “Been here all day,” Sera says in a low whisper, “Been reading one of her dirty books too.”

Dorian almost cackles. Cassandra, abruptly, glances up at the sound and there’s a tense stare off between the three of them. Cassandra’s turning red, slowly, like a rising thermometer. Noelle hides a laugh behind her hand. Dorian’s grin is positively wicked, and he makes to snatch the book from her hands. Cassandra sharply turns away, nearly throwing the book on the ground to keep it out of Dorian’s hand.

“Just getting to the good part?” Dorian asks. “Was  the dashing hero about to declare his undying love?”

Cassandra’s scowling. “Nothing like that.”

“Oh? Was it something more scandalous?”

Cassandra sputters, and Dorian laughs harder.

Noelle, for her part sits down quietly and asks the nearest waitress for a coffee and a cheeseburger. Cassandra’s book is just within range of Noelle’s feet, it would be all too easy to pull it over with her the toe of her shoe. She refrains, of course.

Cassandra leaves her desk drawer open constantly, Noelle’s already looked. She knows exactly what she would find. Pages upon pages of heaving bosoms and breathless whispers, and all sorts of scandalous rendezvous. Noelle would be embarrassed too.

“Why are you both here?” Cassandra asks, forcefully. “Isn’t it a little late?”

“I look more dashing by moonlight,” Dorian says by way of explanation. This earns him an eye roll from Cassandra, and a small laugh from Noelle.

“We were at the Copacabana, though we’d grab some more food after the show.” Noelle says.

Cassandra frowns. “Oh? Finally decide to start writing your column again?”

Well. Shit. Someone’s noticed. Noelle feels the beginnings of guilt bubbling up in her stomach. It was enough to pretend that no one would know, that this was just some ridiculous joke between her and Varric. If the readers noticed, that was one thing. They’re hoardes of faceless, and sometimes, angry customers. Professional ire, however, is another matter. Of course, it is just Cassandra, and she seems only mildly irked over Noelle’s actions. Unfortunately, this spares her no misery. Varric was careful to say that it didn’t count if staff noticed.

Cassandra’s lips curve into a half smirk, and she adds, “I understand your frustration, but perhaps there are better ways to handle this? I do not understand why you can’t just speak to Cullen and explain it.”

Noelle shakes her head. "I have to be mad enough first."

Cassandra frowns. "I don’t follow."

Noelle tries to gesture with her hands, but their vague movements do little to explain her feelings.  Maybe a year ago, things would have different. Cullen was never easy to talk too, at least for Noelle. It’s one of those things where it probably is entirely her, however. Cassandra and Dorian seem to get along with him just fine. For, Noelle, though, it’s a different story. And he’s been so _grumpy_ lately. "It's just easier. When I'm not mad-"

"When she's not mad," Dorian interrupts with a smile. "She constantly finds herself flirting with our dear editor-in-chief."

Despite herself, Noelle huffs. "I do no such thing."

Dorian turns to Cassandra. Though he speaks to Cassandra, it's apparent he's directing the comment at Noelle. "A few weeks back, she told him his eyes were 'pretty'”.

Oh, that. Even the memory brings heat to Noelle’s cheeks. Afterwards, she was a step away for just lying down on the floor and letting death take her. The librarian down the road has become a bit of a running joke at the office. If there was a bar for maximum pretension, Noelle would put local mayor Vivienne at the top. Solas is just a leap beyond. as well meaning as he may seem, one can only handle so much Hemingway. Cullen had made an offhand remark about Solas maintaining more eye contact that was frankly necessary, and Noelle, stupid stupid Noelle, had said "Well, if I were him, I’d be staring at eyes as pretty as yours." Dorian had almost choked on his coffee.  And that was but one moment in a long line of embarrassing comments. She’d tried to stop direct interaction after she’d loudly mentioned liking men with glasses without noticing Cullen speaking with someone two desks over, glasses hanging low on his nose. Then she’d done the silly thing and made eye contact. And once that happened, she hadn’t been able to look away. She’s pretty sure she’d turned redder than he did.

Of course, after Haven, things had been different. After a month of being shut out, she’d stormed into the office and made an excellent and eloquent case for herself. A week after that, she’d been back at her desk, but Lace Harding had taken over Noelle’s political column. Then Noelle had been nothing but angry. She’s sure she’s stormed in there more times in the past two months than she had in the past two years of working at Skyhold Quarterly.

Cassandra says nothing about the matter, mercifully.

Noelle sighs. “Besides, with the foul sort of mood he’s been in lately, I haven’t had much an inclination to go. I’m not foolish enough to pick a fight with a lion.”

Next to her, Dorian snorts.

Cullen had never been what Noelle would describe as “good-humoured”. He’d crack a smile every now and again, but for the most part the only sense he seemed to have was a sense of responsibility. Still, he’d arrive at the office and visit with Dennet and Dorian and get coffee from the Red Jenny just like everyone else. In her early years at Skyhold, as a copy girl, she’d rarely worked with Cullen. Even when she started writing her own papers, it was largely given to her by Cassandra. Still, you work somewhere long enough you get to know your boss’s moods. Something had shifted lately, though. Cullen’s temper, normally even-keel, has become unpredictable. Instead of visiting with anyone he skulks about in his office like he’s the Cary Grant in literally any one of his movies. Maybe half a year ago, Noelle would have had no qualms fighting Cullen on anything. Now, she’s not sure.

“Perhaps if you didn’t treat this as a fight?” Cassandra suggests, one eyebrow rising archly.

Noelle rests her elbows on the table, leaning forward and speaking in a slow voice.  "Perhaps. I've had an idea, however. I’d like to get a few things figured out before I go barging in and having Mr. Rutherford shut my idea down again. I’d like to get all my eggs in the same basket, so to-”

"Well, " Sera interrupts. She slides into the seat next to Noelle, pulling one foot up onto the chair. "I've been thinking."

Cassandra pushes her chair out, wood scraping against the tiled floor. "I'm leaving."

She drops a handful of change on the table, and leaves before anyone else can say anything.

Wise woman.

"So you can't talk to Cully-Wully, Cully-Wully won't talk to you-"

"Do you know everything?" Noelle interjects. Sera has, in Noelle's knowledge, never stepped foot into Skyhold Quarterly nor has she shown any particular interest in it. And yet here she is, gossiping like she lives in the office.

"You're always here, everyone is always here. And I'm not deaf. You're mad about writing bullshit about whoozits like the Sinatra bloke, Cassandra wants Varric to write something about men built like mountains, Dorian spends most of his day with a man who is actually built like a mountain.”

Dorian coughs, nearly choking on the air. Noelle gives him a look, but Sera doesn’t give her the chance to ask anything.

Sera continues rattling off her list, ticking off each item with the fingers of her right hand. “Cully-Wully’s been a grumpy gus for months, and Dennet's daughter keeps spending money at the horse races. Anything else?"

Noelle laughs, but weakly. She may need to find another place to eat.

"You're missing the bit about me being the most handsome journalist in New York," Dorian adds. His face is just a little too red.

"Yeah, yeah, Sir Fancypants, sod off." Sera rolls her eyes. "What you need to do - well not need, should - is get Cullen's attention."

"And how to you propose I go about doing that? "

"I have a few ideas."

This is exactly what Noelle is afraid to hear.

"So, alright, listen - first, you get naked. No. Wait. First he gets - shit that won't work. Get him drunk then you both get naked."

"Sera, no."

Noelle is going to need a drink.

 

 

 

Sera offers exactly one idea that doesn't involve sleeping with her boss. A joking Valentine's themed column. Skyhold’s most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. It would be timely, the quasi Holiday coming up in just two weeks. Noelle toys with the idea most of the night, tossing and turning about in her bed. It's a great idea. Unprofessional, but great. So, mostly for the sake of a joke (and nothing to do with crushing insomnia), Noelle hauls herself out of bed and pulls out her typewriter. Except, as it turns out, it turns into less of a joke and more of a fully fledged column. By the time she's finished it's nearly dawn, the sounds of life waking echoing in through her window. A delivery truck’s engine is rattling, an angry pedestrian shouting at cars, and some kids are playing a rousing game of Kick The Can before school starts for the day.

She stares at the draft on her kitchen counter and wonders what she’s done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Copacabana is a real venue in New York! I don't think it's quite as jazzy now as it was in it's heyday, but in it's prime it was actually owned by a mobster and folks like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin performed there.


	3. Chapter 3

**_SKYHOLD QUARTERLY_ **

**_February_ _6th, 1947_ **

 

 

**_ENTERTAINMENT_ **

**_PERFORMANCE ACCEPTABLE_ **

_The singer performed admirably, clearly imitating one of those more popular singers. Their gentle voice hit most notes, and gave a romantic mood for the evening. The couples seemed more in love than ever before, swaying along to the music. The music was fun, an upbeat rhythm that made me want to pack up bags and move to New Orleans. The band seemed in good spirits, and seemed moderately drunk as well (as is the nature of most stage performers these days). The drinks may have, as well, been a factor in missed or wrong notes. Perhaps in the daylight hours they are modern virtuosos._

_The venue was, in all aspects, moderate. Moderately clean, moderately comfortable, moderately like my Grandmother’s Long Island Bungalow. The food was edible, which is the bare minimum of what anyone could ask of a dining establishment. It was a good experience._

_\- Noelle Trevelyan_

 

 

 

It’s a bit of a time-saver, not having to worry about a column. Noelle breezes through the other additions for the section, her ability to give a shit hindered drastically after her boss essentially admitted to not reading it.  Her to-to list is actually fuller than it has been in several months. Of course, most of December had been spent on forced tedious sick leave, so even having a to-do list feels like a novelty.

First, and foremost on this list is to stop shelling out her rent money to Varric. She slips the $6.50 she still owes him on the desk, and Varric glances up from his typewriter.

“I’m done, Varric. You win.”

Varric looks infuriatingly smug. “Are you sure? Because if you were supposed to go review Zither’s show, I’m sure he’d notice. The man is terribly vain.”

It’s a good point. Any time Zither has been reviewed by anyone, ever, the newspaper was guaranteed to receive a letter from the musician himself. It’s made up on the complaint dart wall before.  “I’m sure Varric,  I’d actually like to keep my apartment.”

Varric shrugs. “Suit yourself. And, hey,  for that column you’re working on? I’d liked to be described as ‘irresistible’.”

Noelle makes a face, because how could he know already? It’s been less than a day since Sera even mentioned it. Varric laughs. “Buttercup told me about this morning, she’s rather proud of it.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s sign enough I should be rethinking this.”

Sera’s previous ‘great’ ideas have included bribing some poor intern to deliver a box of frogs to Cassandra, setting lizards loose in the Roosevelt Public Library, and serving everyone decaffeinated coffee for a whole day. The last had been the mildest, but most upsetting to many of the Red Jenny’s patrons.

“Nah, if anything will get Curly attention, this would be it. Short of stripping down, of course, but for the sake of the rest of the office - don’t do that. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

 

 

 

This could get her fired. Noelle realizes this a little too late, when she’s taking a pen to the paper and noting down all the late-night errors. It’s what happens when you start writing in the middle of the night. Fingers hit the wrong keys, words get mixed around, the sentence structure stops making sense.  Noelle’s only hope is that she can speak to Lady Leliana tonight. As far as game plans go, it isn’t her best. She and Leliana have known each other a few years now and hopefully that will help her out. If Leliana is truly going to be invited to perform for Empress Celene, Noelle is willing to gamble Leliana will agree to have press coverage. Specifically, that is, Noelle’s coverage. If that falls through, maybe Noelle will just leave.

The thought is startling. She’s loved the past two years at Skyhold Quarterly, give or take a few squabbles here and there. Even in her early days, as a copy girl, she’d always felt the importance of the place. There was never any end to the news. The war was ending, troops were coming home, and everyone was desperately trying to pick up the pieces.  Adjusting to civilian life has been difficult for many, almost impossible for some. It helps, in some strange way, to be reporting. This is a strange new world they live in, and even at twenty-six Noelle has a hard time keeping up with the changes. The cars are faster, the dresses are shorter, and suddenly everyone is going to the movies. It’s marvelous, in an absolutely exhausting way.. Telling their stories. Telling the news, it feels like she’s making some small difference.

The Entertainment section isn’t quite so fast paced. Sure, Noelle likes music and dancing, but it’s not the quite the same.  The development of records had been exciting, and so had smaller radios, and oh, the Lindy Hop was something for sure, but Noelle begins to feel a bit like the world is passing her by.  There’s no part to play in observing, Noelle wants to be involved, to be a part of the new unfolding world.

So. Yeah. Maybe she’ll leave.

But, first, she’ll have fun with it.

Spell-checking is the easiest part of the job. She can’t, of course, go through Cullen for this. He may not notice how carefully bland her column had been, but she doubts a column with his name on it in bold letters would go unnoticed. Which means it has to go straight through to the printers. It’s a strange department. Lots of loud machines and grumpy operators. Luckily they, like everyone, easily bribed by food. So she scans through it quickly, scribbling our errors and adding bits as she thinks them up.  So - point being, everything is just about done. Frankly she could probably leave after lunch if she chose, providing everything goes well with the printers.. It would, however, be suspicious if Noelle didn’t show up to her job. She’s turned up dutifully everyday, sitting around at her desk and doing next to nothing. The free time has led to one interesting discovery: from her desk she has a wonderful view of the office.

Cullen’s office has a large window facing the rest of the floor, allowing him viewing access to the desks and the staff occasional glimpses into their editor-in-chief’s work process. If staring and frowning at papers all day long counts as a process. Sometimes you can see him pace, but it’s only a shadow against the closed blinds. Now, however, Cullen’s window is open. The rest of the desks are lined up, one after the other, like rows of dominoes. They all face Cullen’s office. Which would likely be why he regularly closes his blinds or his door. Noelle’s desk is just a little too far to the left to get a proper view into Cullen’s office. It makes sneaking a surreptitious look a little tricky. The closest she can come to casual is by leaning back past her desk into the walking space separating her from Fairbanks. It doesn’t feel casual, no matter how hard Noelle tries to relax into the position. The chair tilts, a little too close to losing balance but any less of an angle and it feels strange.

The staring is research, she tells herself. If he’s going to be in this ridiculous Valentine’s column, she’s going to have to describe him right. Cullen’s glasses hang low on the bridge of his nose, and the end of a pen hangs from his mouth. He rolls it, absently, from side to side as he scans some sort of letter. From the way his brow his furrowed, it’s more than an average reader complaint. Whatever it could be, however, is a mystery. Noelle imagines it’s something exciting, an invitation to a press conference or breaking news on the Thom Rainer case. But then, it’s probably not. He doesn’t look that interested. Whatever his expression is, Noelle can’t read it. Cullen always looks closed off, a careful sort of guardedness. To be fair, most people do. Even Dorian gets a far away look in his eyes at times. War does that to people. It’s a glazed look, shoulders tight, and fists clenching and unclenching at your side. It seems to happen to Cullen more than most.

Dennit answers the phone, and suddenly Cullen is turning away from his desk to grab his receiver. As he turns back, phone cradled in the crook of his neck, he catches Noelle’s eye. They both stare at each other. The looks linger for a bit longer than necessary. Noelle experiences some strange sort of paralysis. She wants to move, lord knows no part of this looks casual, and yet she’s stuck. Cullen seems to be growing increasingly uncomfortable, a red flush starting to spread across his cheeks. He scratches the back of his neck.  He looks so nervous it’s almost adorable.  Then Noelle moves, or tries to. Her leg cramps up as she tries to push herself closer to being upright, and she winds up tumbling to the floor. She can see the top of Cullen’s head shoot up to peer out the window as she topples down, and the whole office freezes for the briefest of moments. Thank the Lord, they all have things to get back too, but Noelle notices Varric’s snicker.

 

 

It costs Noelle a week’s wage and a box of doughnuts to convince Rylen to print her article without Cullen’s express permission (which, say what you will about Rylen’s dedicated and no-nonsense work-ethic, the man understands the worth of good old money).  At this point she’s pretty she’ll be broke by the time she can leave the building.

The printers is on the fourth floor of building, existing as a strange sort of nether-realm where the reporters rarely enter. Cullen’s normally the only one who goes up from the fourth floor, in fact. The third floor is where the reporters lurk about, the second floor consists of a mailroom and distribution center for the printed papers. The first floor exists, almost solely, as a reception area. Some small interview rooms are tucked away in the back, and they’re in frequent use. On her way back down the stairs, she gets a handful of odd looks from the few who noticed her in the stairwell. It’s not where she’s supposed to be.

Where she is supposed to be is a whole other matter. She excuses herself from work early, pretending to go scope out a venue before the show begins. Which, technically, is true, though she’s been to the Hanged Man enough times to know it’s layout by heart.

 

 

The Hanged Man still retains some function as an inn, with two floors of rooms above the bar for guests. Noelle imagines sleeping there at night would difficult. Their soundproofing is not great, the sound of the dishes in the basement clattering all the way up the stairs to the dressing rooms on the first floor. From the basement, the dressing rooms are accessed from a hidden stairwell behind the stage. Following it up takes you through a repurposed fridge on the main floor, in what used to be a pantry.

Noelle takes the easy way, going in through the street entrance and hooking a left by the stairs. Leliana’s dressing room door is ajar, warm light and soft music coming out. Leliana has a knack for making everything seem casual. The way she reclines,  feet propped on the vanity, book idly in the hand. Soft red curtains frame the window and pool on the scuffed wood floor. On the walls, old flyers and posters are plastered all over,and only a small amounts of the original green wallpaper are visible. Leliana wears wearing a long, silk dressing gown. The dressing gown is untied, and drapes over the edge of chair. She isn’t dressed for her performance. Instead, she wears a black slip and fuzzy slippers. And still, she hardly reacts when Noelle slips in through the door.

"Ah, Noelle. I'm glad to see you. It has been too long."

Leliana smiles as if she’s been expecting Noelle.They'd crossed paths briefly before the war ended, Leliana in London to perform and Noelle just desperate for a night out that didn't involve hiding in a shaky bomb shelter. For Leliana the night had gone rather well. Sure, she played in a bomb shelter with her band playing loud enough to almost drown out the sirens, but she still played. Later, when Noelle had interviewed her on it, Leliana called it one of her best performances. "There is something truly beautiful with music, I find that nothing quite brings people together like it does. I take great solace in the thought that I offered even a few of those people trapped there with us some comfort."

Noelle, for her part, still spent the night in a bomb shelter. That should have been the end of it, they would have gone their separate ways and never spoken again. Then, though, Leliana never quite stopped calling. Or leaving strange letters in flourishing handwriting addressed to Skyhold Quarterly. Like, "Speak with Alistair Therin,  he was in the Warden company", or "Something is going to happen  at Rocky's, on fifth and ninth. Would love to see you."

There's never an signature, but Leliana's handwriting and accent are distinctly Orlesian. The anonymity is more appearance than anything else.

"Just a few months," Noelle replies,  "nothing quite so bad as the years before it. How did it feel to be playing at the Copa?"

"Truthfully? It is an honour, but I find it’s too big for my tastes. I think I would have enjoyed it more when I was younger."

Noelle stifles a laugh. Leliana is only a few years older than she, and neither are exactly elderly. Give it two more years and Leliana will be complaining of the kids these days and old war aches.

“The Hanged Man is more your taste?”

Leliana fits in at the Hanged Man like Cullen would fit in at a Cabaret. She’s all finely polished nails and expensive wines, parading about a dank and smelly bar in expensive heels. “Hardly, but with the people here it feels rather like a home.” Leliana’s smile is fond. “But, you didn’t come here just to catch up, correct?”

“I’ve got news,” Noelle says, taking a seat on the rickety wooden stool across from Leliana. “And a proposition.”

To this, Leliana laughs and places the book, facedown and open, on the table. “Interesting.”

“I’ve heard that you’re being strongly considered to perform for the Empress Celene when she comes to visit.”

Leliana, unsurprisingly, does not look surprised. Instead, she nods calmly. “Yes, I’ve heard the same.”

“I was next to them at the Copa last week, both agreed you were their best option.”

“I’m flattered.”

“As well you should be.” Noelle leans forward. “I’ve heard the Empress is notoriously hard to get an audience with.”

Leliana huffs a small laugh. “Hard it’s putting it lightly, it’s frankly Byzantine.  Now, what’s this proposition?”

“Let me come with if they ask you. The Empress certainly won’t allow journalists near her, she’s made that remarkably clear, but it’s not uncommon for celebrities to have someone there to record their performance. Maryden had a reporter with her when she met the mayor.”

“Vivienne is a little less concerned with security.”

“Admittedly, yes. Swing it as I’m coming with to mark this moment in your career, or that I’m your blasted trumpet cleaner, something that’s not quite as threatening as “journalist”.”

Leliana is, at least, thinking about her. Her hands are folded primly in her lap and she taps her thumbs together as she thinks. “I see what you get out of this,” Leliana says slowly. “But where’s my angle?”

“Are you kidding? An actual record of your performance for a notoriously hard to interact with Empress? People will be lining up for interviews.”

Leliana arches a finely lined eyebrow.  “And what of your interview?”

Noelle chuckles. “Leliana, I’ve interviewed you enough for a lifetime. No interview.”

“May I inquire what sort of story you’re looking for here?”

Even Leliana knows this is unorthodox. Noelle _should_ be the one interviewing Leliana, it would make the most sense. Then, though, Leliana gets nothing exciting from the arrangement and there's no incentive for her to agreement. 

“Any story, at this point,” Noelle admits. “But I’ve covered enough of yours. If I document much more of your life I’d be better off as your personal biographer.”

Being in the same room as the Empress isn’t exactly a ground-breaking story, but it’s a foot into a door that Noelle had thought long closed.

Leliana makes a face, lips pursing into a small frown. “I will consider it. I cannot make any promises, however. The Orleasian Royalty like their privacy, much like I like keeping my job. If you’re allowed to come, you cannot snoop. I will be unhireable if people can’t trust me to not invade their privacy.”

“I won’t get nosy, cross my heart.”

At this, Leliana smiles. “You’re an awful liar. I’ll consider it Noelle. Can I expect to see you in the audience tonight?”

“Where else would I be?”

Lord help her, Noelle can’t even think of a valid answer. Thirty years ago she’d have been labeled some sort of floozy with the amount of time she spent at bars.

Leliana shifts, moving to reach for her book, but she pauses. “Oh, Noelle. If you are truly serious about this offer, I would consider taking on some bigger projects. As enlightening as your bet must have been, it won’t look good from an imperial perspective.”

Noelle groans. “Couldn’t you have mentioned before I paid Varric half the cost of my rent?”

Leliana laughs. “And where would be the fun in that?”

Noelle rolls her eyes.

For a short time, she and Leliana catch up. Leliana’s life is filled with far more excitement than Noelle’s has ever been. Performing all over, meeting all kinds of people (including the president, briefly). When she rises to leave, a little after five, Leliana puts a hand on Noelle’s arm.

“I’ll do my best to arrange it.”

Noelle smiles. “Thanks, Leliana.”

 

 

Noelle spends her work week going through the motions, anxiously waiting for the phone to ring. It would obviously be a process to have any request granted, she knows that. No world leader with half a brain is going to let any journalist stumble into their midst. Perhaps it’s a good thing her articles have been shit lately. Based on the past two months of writing, even Noelle would admit she hardly seems like an intelligent threat. Cassandra wouldn’t be allowed within thirty feet of the event, Noelle is sure. The woman has a nose for trouble, and has spent two years rooting it out of everything she’s looked into.  So maybe playing dumb is Noelle’s angle then, as much as it hurts to think. The first woman in her family to strike it out on her own in generations, and she’s playing the role of dumb damsel. Or everything will go bottom-up and she’ll be left without a job.

“Cassandra,” Noelle says.

Cassandra grunts in response.

“Cassandra,” Noelle repeats.

This time, Cassandra grunts but turns her chair to face Noelle.

“If I get fired, are we still on for poker?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on publishing that ridiculous article.”

It’s somewhat of a mystery how word of Noelle’s exploits have yet to reach Cullen. She glances up, briefly, towards his office. He’s leaning against the doorframe, speaking to Dennit. Then he glances up, quickly scans the room. When his gaze gets to Noelle, she feels the flush in her cheeks and jerks her gaze back to Cassandra. Cassandra is looking, disapprovingly, at Noelle. It feels like she’s always looking disapprovingly at Noelle.

“Noelle.” Cassandra’s voice has a way of just cutting through things. It’s sharp. Noelle imagines that once upon a time Cassandra would have been fierce with a sword. She’d be fierce with one now, as well. That’s just the way she is. “I’m sure if you just speak to Cullen, he’d understand. He’s not unreasonable.”

“Mr. Rutherford has been nothing but unreasonable for the past two months.” Noelle scowls. First he keeps her away from work for a whole, awful month, and then when she finally got back into the office she was stuck with Entertainment. And he’s been entirely unwilling to discuss any aspect of the situation.

“He was-” Cassandra starts, but then stops just as abruptly. “Forget it. He has his reasons, Noelle.”

Noelle scrunches her face into a frown. That tells her exactly nothing. “Everyone has reasons, Cassandra. It’s not like Hitler invaded Poland for fun.”

“I trust you’re not comparing our boss to the leader of the Third Reich?”

Shit. “I-no. No I’m definitely not. I’m just saying reasons don’t always justify the action.”

In terms of “quickest ways to get on a shit-list”, comparing anyone to Hitler is very high up there. Cassandra doesn’t seem too offended, she just scoffs and rolls her eyes.

She starts to turn back, but pauses, and swivels so she’s facing Noelle again. “And yes. I’m still ‘in’ for poker. I believe Varric has spent too long a time as reigning champion. It’s getting to his head.”

 

 

 

The phone doesn’t ring once for Noelle at work. She’s swallowing disappointment the whole bus ride home, ignoring the constant jostling that would normally set her teeth on edge.  Perhaps getting her hopes up was a mistake. Good things take time, and all that. It would be easier to wait for these good things if there was anything to do at home, of course. Noelle’s apartment is dismally sparce. She has a radio, that has evidently stayed on since she left this morning, as Philliam, A Bard!’s broadcast is audible through the door. The few books she owns have already been read, and have been repurposed as a table leg and coasters. She should start knitting again. It would at least give her something to do. She cracks open a window, and hears the clamour of the courtyard outside and feels the cold breeze, then promptly closes it again.

Her apartment is along the rear of complex, sharing a courtyard with three neighbouring apartments.. Needless to say, it’s quite busy. It’s worse when it’s warm. Winter brought an end to the constant bickering over appropriate uses for the community garden. Now the running complaint is about the weird guy in the apartment across the courtyard who keeps looking out of his window with a pair of binoculars. People have started closing their blinds recently. The children have taken over the courtyard for the winter, and the snow is so full of angels it’s about a step away from being a frozen heaven. Lopsided snowmen keep watch over it all.

She can see the snowball fight just fine without having to hear it.

Noelle casts a long glance around her apartment. Not too long after, she picks up the phone and calls Dorian. The operator connects her, and the phone rings, and rings, and rings, until Noelle is fairly certain that Dorian isn’t going to pick up. Then there’s a click, and a breathless, “Hello, Dorian Pavus speaking.”

Dorian is one of the few lucky enough to not suffer through the continued horror that is party lines. How he’s managed this is a mystery, but Noelle still anxiously awaits two clicks. Then, ideally, a third. But Mrs. Jameson from the floor below is a notorious snoop.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Dorian sounds incredibly out of breath. In the background, Noelle can hear some sort of thumping noise, like someone is wandering around his apartment.

“Did you have someone over?” Dorian never has people over. He claims he just likes the bachelor life, but it’s always been in a hollow sort of way.

Dorian laughs, but it sounds forced. “Who would I possibly-”

Noelle cuts him off, “Is this the man Sera mentioned?”

Dorian groans. “I had hoped you’d forgotten about that.”

“Details about you? Never.”

“I am unforgettable.” There’s a loud crash, and Dorian coughs like he’s trying to cover it up. “Sadly, it’s just me here. Terribly lonely for a Thursday night.”

Noelle contemplates challenging it, because Dorian’s not the best liar in the world and it’s either a man or a herd of elephants stomping about Dorian’s apartment. “I’ll make you a deal: I’ll pretend that’s true, if we go out on the town tonight.”

It’s either that or Noelle dies of boredom of her apartment.

“Ms. Trevelyan, are you asking me on a date?” Dorian adopts a tone that sounds half scandalized, half honoured.

“Only if your other date will spare you.”

“I’m alone,” Dorian insists, despite the sound of deep laughter on the other end.

It’s a surprisingly mild night for a winter in New York, so Noelle watches the bus go by as she makes her way down the sidewalk. It’s been a few days since a proper snowfall, and most of it’s been plowed until piles along the side of the road. As much as Noelle dislikes the snow, there is something very satisfying about the way it crunches underneath her leather boots. They’re hardly good dancing shoes, but if Ginger Rogers can dance in high heels, Noelle can dance in boots. It’s not like she’s about to go out in pumps in the middle of February. Three days trapped in a snow-covered cave has taught Noelle that it’s more important to dress appropriately than to look good. Thus, the reason there’s a clunky fur hat on her head, pulled low to cover her ears. She’ll certainly have to fix up her hair when she gets to Dorian’s, but that’s the price one pays. Noelle adjusts her gloves, feels the hollow space where the pinky of her left hand should be.

All things considered, she’d been lucky. At least, that’s what the doctors had said. Losing a pinky was better than losing a whole hand, and even though the scar on her forehead would never heal properly at least she was still alive. There was a point in there, somewhere, but Noelle had lost it after struggling to relearn to type. She’s still far slower than she used to be.

Noelle shoves her hands into the pockets of her charcoal-coloured coat. It’s then she notices something is missing. She stops mid-step, mind racing. Her wallet must still be at home, likely left on the end table by the door. Noelle can almost picture where she left it (which is where she always leaves it, making the forgetting so much worse). It’s too late to double back, though, she’s more than half-way to Dorian’s and by the time she makes the full trip Dorian will probably have given up and gone to bed. Generally, once Dorian is in his pajamas, it would take a bombing raid to get him out of his apartment again.

Skyhold, though, that’s close by. Noelle’s turning down the side street before she’s fully committed to the idea. She normally keeps an extra couple bucks lying around her desk, it won’t be hard enough to get. The cleaning staff and the printers were probably still around anyway. Skyhold Quarterly is a larger red-bricked building crammed between a deli and a corner store. The lights of the corner store are still on, a lone elderly man reading behind the till. Noelle’s expecting the fourth floor lights to be on, normally the printers are there until around ten. What she isn’t expecting is for there to be any sign of life on the third floor. There’s a warm glow in the window, but no sign of life inside. Probably just a forgetful janitor.

Thankfully, Noelle didn’t forget her keys with her wallet, and she climbs the steps to the third floor. The building is mostly quiet, though Noelle can hear the hum of the printing press from the floor above. Until she opens the door to the writer’s floor, and she can the murmur of a voice. Most of the room is dark, the only source of light coming from Cullen’s office. The office blinds are closed, but the door is open a crack, casting shadows across the room. It’s not normally this silent and Cullen’s voice, low and urgent, carries into the rest of the room. The words are unintelligible, even with Noelle straining to listen. The tone, though, that Noelle can pick up on. Angry, harsh. Definitely not a good time to interrupt.

She walks, quietly, to her desk and grabs the handful of cash she keeps tucked away in her bottom desk drawer. It’s not as if she’s planning on getting spectacularly sauced. And if the plans for the night changes, Dorian can foot the bill.

For a man estranged from his family, Dorian affords a nice apartment in the nice side of the neighbourhood. It’s a newer building, all clean grey stone and proper heating.  It’s no top story condo, but the building has a marble archway and a rich green awning that protects the entrance from the weather.  The snow has still gotten beneath it. The snow gets everywhere, though. Clinging desperately to everything and anything, until it melts away. Noelle hates it.

She buzzes up to Dorian’s apartment, and waits. The chill is terrible, and she’s grumpy by the third hum. So when it takes six she’s scowling.

“Pavus residence,”

“Please tell me you’re not planning on letting me get frostbite?”

Something slams shut in the background.

“Perfect! Just the lady I’ve been waiting for.”

Someone is hurtling down the building’s fire escape. The streets may be busy, but the clattering of metal is unmistakable. Alone, her ass.

Still, Dorian buzzes her up and it’s a reprieve from the chill. As much as she wants to stay and snoop, her desire for warmth outweighs it tremendously. She shakes off snow onto a plush carpet in the lobby, before making her way toward the stairwell. The elevator works, but in the flakiest sense of the term. It’s been known to stop halfway between two floors, or shudder like it’s about to fall all the way to the basement. Dorian’s neighbour thinks it’s haunted by some weird elevator ghost. Dorian thinks the building hasn’t been worked on since Hoover was in office.

Dorian opens the door half-dressed. His hair is unstyled, hanging limply in front of his face inside of stylishly slicked back, and his eyes are unlined. His housecoat, a royal purple with silk lining, is tied tightly around his waist. All he really needs is a cigar and he’d be the picture of luxury. The apartment itself is modestly furnished - Dorian is not made of money. The one area Dorian has clearly splurged is book space, dark bookshelves line the walls and are almost full.

Dorian Pavus, New York’s One Man Library, speaks.  “You’ll just need to give me a moment to get ready, I’m afraid.”

Noelle laughs. “Dorian, I was late. How is it possible you’re still not ready?”

Dorian coughs, and adjusts the collar of his housecoat. “Yes, well. I was rather preoccupied until recently.”

Noelle makes herself at home in one of the armchairs in the living room, tucking her calves under her thighs. There’s a matching chair across from her, a chessboard filling the space between them. It looks as if Dorian was in the midst of a game, pawns spread out across the board. A knight lies discarded on the side. Dorian’s couch has been tucked away into the corner by the window and covered in plush throw pillows. It’s a perfect little reading nook, though there are certainly too many pillows to be functional. Dorian saunters off to the bathroom, not closing the door behind him. He clatters about with something, likely brushes and hair styling products Noelle has never heard of.

“Preoccupied how?” Noelle asks.

Dorian tsks. “I thought you weren’t about to pry any more. I’m perfectly content to stay at home this evening if you’re that curious.”

Noelle sighs. Fair enough. She shifts and stretches out her legs. Whoever Dorian was playing in chess must have been good, both sides appear evenly matched. She could pretend that Dorian truly was alone, and was playing himself, but she doubts it.

“What kept you?” Dorian asks, poking his head out to raise an inquisitive eyebrow. His eyes narrow suddenly. “Do mind the chess board, I’d rather like to see where the game is going to go.”

“If I was a betting woman,” Noelle says, “I’d imagine the game will end with you cheating your way to victory.”

DOrian sniffs. “The nerve, Pavus’s do not cheat.”

“Sure, and Pavus’s never lie either.” Noelle rolls her eyes, but settles back into the chair away from the board. “I forgot my wallet at home, so I made a quick detour to Skyhold to pick up some money from my desk. Thought I’d spare you my freeloading for an evening. Strangest thing, though.”

Dorian makes a sort of questioning humming sound.

“Mr. Rutherford was still there. It was almost seven, you’d think the man would go home at some point.”

“Ah, yes, you would.” Dorian steps into view, hair now mostly styled and eyes lined, and leans against the doorframe. “Every now and again he seems to forget that he has a home to go back too. Once that man gets focused on something it seems like the rest just vanishes.” Dorian sighs. “Stubborn fool that he is. If he’s still at work he’s likely forgotten to eat again.” Dorian runs a hand through his hair, carefully. Disturbing it too much meant he’d have to go restyle it. “Ah, well. This is one horse I suspect won’t let us lead him to water. Just allow me to get dressed and we can leave. The Herald’s Rest Awaits.”


	4. Chapter 4

**SKYHOLD QUARTERLY**

**December 10th, 1946**

**LOCALS**

 

**The Herald’s Rest - the community center on the corner of Maric and Griffon Avenue - is offering a weekly dance every Wednesday night that is free to the general public. Of course, they are more than willing to accept donations, and all proceeds will go towards relief efforts in Haven. Put on some dancing shoes and come out for a lovely evening of entertainment, courtesy of the Hawke Brothers. Drinks and food will be provided for a price, as well. The doors will open at eight in the evening and continue on until around ten.**

  
  
**The library will be holding a public reading of Brother Genitivi’s fascinating trek through the Himalayas. For more information, contact Solas at the Therin Public Library.**

 

 

The Herald’s Rest is hopping.

Dorian and Noelle climb the steps of the community center, arm and arm, and already the general sound of people is audible. The community center is a large, plain looking building with scuffed blue siding and large white-framed windows.  There’s a wooden sign hammered into the snow, proclaiming in bright colours; “The Herald’s Rest Community Center! Proud supports of the U.S. Troops.” During the war the building had served as a volunteer station, and on your average day was full of women filling up kits for the troops overseas.  The weekly dances had started then, sometime in the middle of the war, as an attempt to bolster morale from the soldiers on leave and the local population. It had stuck around, though now the choice of charities vary. Tonight, the funds are going towards a new Iron Lung for a nearby hospital. For all the medical advancements since the war,  TB is still far too prevalent.

The snow has been shoveled off the sidewalk, pushed up against the side of building and partly obscuring the sign. Still, the branches of frozen shrubs peak out as if trying to free themselves. Ice still clings to the steps, and Noelle treads carefully. Soon someone will need to salt them, it’s a hazard.

The interior of the Herald’s Rest appears to be largely wooden; wood-paneled walls with unsteady looking wooden chairs lining the them. Along the eastern wall is a small door connecting to a kitchenette area, where the Cabot sells beer and snacks. Shoes scuff the wood-laminate as couples twist and spin around the room. The Hawke Brothers have a small set-up in the corner with a piano and a microphone. Carver Hawke looks as surly as ever, playing away on the piano as if there are pins on the keys, while Garret croons too close to the microphone. The Hawke Brothers have become a sort of strange local phenomena, rarely playing outside of the neighbourhood but people still respond to them as if they were as famous as Crosby or Sinatra. It’s not even that they’re exceptionally good in any sense, Garret’s sense of rhythm is a little off and Carver’s no Mozart. What they lack in talent, they seem to make up for in style. Garret is always dressed plainly, a simple white shirt tucked into dark blue slacks with thin brown suspenders. He looks like the kind of person who’d worked on a railroad in the depression, but without the dirt and sadness. Carver wears a suit, an oatmeal brown colour, with his hair slicked back. It’s a very down-to-Earth style, nothing compared to the suits you’d see at a swankier venue. It helps that Garret carries himself with a very distinct sort of swagger that makes his performances fun.

Dorian hangs his coat on one of the racks by the door, then extends his hands to take Noelle’s jacket. She shrugs it off, allowing Dorian to place it on top of his. The coats are all piled on top of each other, each small rung of the coat rack holding at least three jackets. It’s a miracle the thing stays on the wall all winter long. Noelle stops to shake the snow off her boots over the well-worn welcome mat before continuing into the room.

“Drinks, or dancing first?” Noelle asks Dorian. He adjusts his tie and tucks it into his vest. Dorian’s dressed surprisingly simply for an evening out, this time in a brown vest and black trousers.  His tie, a striking red, is tied tightly around his neck.

“Drinks,” Dorian decides. “Let’s start the evening off right, shall we?”

The bar offers a fine selection of beer: beer. It’s a community center, not a bar, as the bartender likes to remind everyone.  Soda-pop and beer are kept in small fridge in the back, and a small table by the kitchenette door shows off the food available. Muffins and dainties make up the majority of it, but there’s a small selection of sandwiches available for purchases.

Cabot, the unusually terse bartender, frowns as he hands Dorian and Noelle their drinks, still cold in glass bottles. “Busy tonight?” Dorian asks, politely.

“Look around,” Cabot replies with hardly more than a blink.

"Lovely chat."

They find seats in the corner, next to an older couple sitting the song out. Noelle smooths out the folds of her skirt. She really should have ironed her clothes earlier. Her skirt is mostly fine, it’s a thick fabric that doesn’t wrinkle nearly as easily as her linen blouse. Too much time in the laundry hamper has added unwanted creases in her clothing.  Dorian’s immaculate, all smooth sharp lines. Where he finds the time, Noelle isn’t sure. You’d think doing something mysterious with the mob would be a sink hole for time, and yet here they are. Dorian dances around the topic more smoothly than the actual dancing surrounding them. Because naturally Noelle asks. Multiple times. The usual ‘how’s work’ ‘what’d you do today’ and the like, and Dorian somehow, bafflingly, avoids directly answering any of them.

The Hawke Brother’s are keeping a fast beat, an uproarious cover of some old song and Noelle watches the dancers feet fly with the beat. It’s a messy, unprofessional sort of dance and people are missing steps all over the place. The older couples, swinging about, laugh at their mis-steps and carry on.  Younger kids are dancing nervously with their dates, blushing as they stumble. They’re much slower as they try and avoid each other’s toes.

“Ugh,” Dorian remarks, instead of answering Noelle’s question about where he’s spend his past few days. Noelle’s seen him at the office exactly once. “You can almost smell the young love. Revolting.” He takes long sip of his beer.

“You love it.” Noelle tells him, and Dorian scowls.

“Hardly.”

He says it with such disdain that Noelle can’t help but laugh. She downs her beer quickly, placing the bottle on the ground next to the chair’s leg. “Shall we show these kids how it’s done?”

Dorian accepts the offer eagerly, grabbing her hand and puling Noelle through the crowd. 

When Noelle had been just a girl, she’d learned to dance. Waltz, more specifically. Private lessons, courtesy of Grammie Trevelyan. That had been formal, led by a strict teacher with a long face and short temper. The waltz was all good posture, and perfect timing and very upper class. Dorian had learned too, he must have from the way he speaks of his upbringing. Dancing to jazz is none of this things. Proper swing dancing, sure, there is an art to that. Even though Dorian starts standing straight, hands placed primly and properly in Noelle’s hand and on her waist, it quickly descends into a flurry of quick spins and messy footwork. A gentle push on Noelle’s waist pushes her into a twirl, and her skirt flares out around her. She ducks under Dorian’s arm, under she’s facing him again. Dorian grins, and places his hand back on her

She’s dancing more poorly than usual. In the midst of the crowd and surrounded by so many people. There are people to watch out for, after all. Someone’s elbow is always nearby and just about to swing into your side if you’re not careful. Something tugs at Noelle, though, something she was hoping to tuck away the rest of the night. As she looks around at the crowd, her mind keeps wandering away. Back to the office, of all places. Or, more specifically, to Cullen, because the last thing she wants to think about after work is more about work. Typically, Cullen isn’t much of an improvement over thinking about work, and today isn’t any different. Because he’s making her sad, of all things. Pitying him makes being angry so much harder. Nights alone, in cold dark rooms, are tedious. At best. It’s a thing Noelle knows from experience. After Haven, once she’d been discharged from the hospital, she’d spent far too long lazing about with nothing but the radio for entertainment. Listless and lonely. Cullen is likely not listless, he doesn’t seem like the type. Lonely though, that wouldn’t surprise her.  There’s nothing she can do, she tells herself. It’s not as if he’d come out dancing. The invite would have fallen on deaf ears. Dorian’s right (like always, she’s sure he’d say) in this case, it’s not worth the fight.  

She steps on Dorian’s foot. “Shit, Dorian, sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Dorian says with a laugh, “I imagine I’ll survive. I do suggest you try to stop this thinking thing you’re doing, if not for the sake of my toes, but for the sake of your face. If that crease continues any longer you’re going to get wrinkles.”

As if being careless is the cure to a wrinkle-free life.

Noelle takes a breath, and tries to bring her attention to the present. Worry continues to play across the back of her mind, an unwelcoming and discordant melody compared to the band. Nothing she can do. Nothing she can do. He’s probably starving. He can’t just not eat. Nothing she can do. But then, the man zeroes in on things like a missile. Noelle’s seen him when he’s helping Cassandra with research, so focused that not even Varric could get his attention.  Noelle’s steps falter, and Dorian gives her a look. She can’t do anything.

As if repeating it makes it true. Damn. Damn her, and damn him. She doesn’t want to care but she can feel it tugging at her heart strings. The same tug that had her running at an avalanche. Again, she tries to focus on Dorian. He’s giving her a curious look, head cocked and one eyebrow arched. Like he’s trying to read her mind, like the psychic that lives on Noelle’s floor keeps claiming she can do. Dorian, mercifully, has never said he has such abilities, and seems to gain nothing from scrutinizing his friend.

“You look as if you need another drink.” Dorian says this simply, naturally. Thinking? Oh, drinks will solve that problem.

Noelle huffs a laugh. “Dorian. It’s a Wednesday night.”

He turns them round in a slow circle, bouncing back off of a rock step with cheer. “And?”

“And,” Noelle says, “Some of us still have to be the office tomorrow. The hangover won’t be worth it.”

Feeling like God is trying to split her head in two while listening to the cacophony of phones and people is a painful enough thought, and one Noelle isn’t eager to put to practice. Again.

Dorian moves Noelle’s hand, tucking it behind her back. He lets go of Noelle’s waist and snakes his arm around to grab Noelle’s hand from behind her back. He pulls and spins her round like a spool of thread. Dorian holds her hand still, his other hand dropping to the curve of her waist and tugging her back so Noelle’s back is pressed against Dorian’s chest. “Suit yourself. I’ll just have to drink for the both of us.”

“The burdens you bear.”

“I am truly a hero among lesser men,” Dorian says, and lifts their hands to spin Noelle so she’s facing him once again.

Noelle spots the man parting the crowd before Dorian does, the top of his head visible over Dorian’s shoulder. He’s remarkably tall, with broad shoulders and a sharp angular face. Handsome, perhaps, behind all the scars and the eyepatch. Despite his size, he seems to tilt and shift himself to get through the crow without knocking anyone down. It’s remarkably patient for a man who could just as easily charge through everyone with little interruption.  He’s unfamiliar, but this in itself is not really remarkable. Normally Noelle would not give him a second thought, but he’s scanning the crowd as if looking for someone, and straightens when his gaze lands on Noelle and Dorian. It’s as if he zeroes in on them, the way he strides over. He taps Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian drops Noelle’s hand to turn round.

“Can I steal a dance?” The man asks - his voice sounding like a rumble.

Noelle looks between Dorian - tense, frowning-  and the taller man - huge, but not imposing. And nods. “Of course.”

Dorian probably wants to grab a drink anyway.

The man frowns at her, curiously, and Noelle feels suspiciously like she said the wrong thing. Realization seems to dawn, for the stranger, at least, and the man manages, “Oh! Shit, you though - no, sorry, I was asking him.” He gestures to Dorian, who seems to freeze completely. Not even a twitch of his mustache. The man laughs. “After though, I’d be honoured to dance with you.”

It doesn’t take a genius to realize they’ve met before. Dorian doesn’t just glower like that at complete strangers. She’d wonder how, but there’s so much she doesn’t know about Dorian’s life at this point. It could be a mob thing You’d think that, being a reporter, she’d be a bit more familiar with the recent mob feuds. But no, sadly Noelle has no idea what’s happening. So, she stands uncomfortably by, waiting for some cue from Dorian. The man grins, lopsidedly, and Dorian sighs. It sounds more beleaguered than he looks.

“Yes, alright, fine. If you’ll excuse me a moment, Noelle.”

 

 

 

Noelle watches them dance near Cabot’s food table. She’d approached with the intention of getting another beer (but only one more, she’d told herself), but is now eyeing the platter of baked goods behind Cabot.

He must have eaten, she tells herself, and tears her gaze away. Dorian’s dancing partner is surprisingly light on his feet for his size, or would be if either of them could agree on who was leading. Dorian’s putting on a great show of being put-upon and offended, but he’s all bark and no bite. He allows the larger man to push him into a spin with little more than a eye roll. They’re discussing something, but they’re not staying still long enough for Noelle to read their lips. From the furrow of Dorian’s brow, and the man’s frown, it’s not all casual flirting.

He must have eaten, she tells herself, and tears her gaze away. Dorian’s dancing partner is surprisingly light on his feet for his size, or would be if either of them could agree on who was leading. Dorian’s putting on a great show of being put-upon and offended, but he’s all bark and no bite. He allows the larger man to push him into a spin with little more than a eye roll. They’re discussing something, but they’re not staying still long enough for Noelle to read their lips. From the furrow of Dorian’s brow, and the man’s frown, it’s not all casual flirting.

The song has changed, tempo slowing and Garret Hawke’s voice dropping to a seductive pitch. Noelle’s pretty sure she spotted him winking at girls in the crowd already. It’d be a miracle if those boys went home alone.  The space between Dorian and the man is closing, the pair almost chest to chest now. The man is speaking into Dorian’s ear in a way that would surely be scandalous if both their expression were slightly less somber.

“Can I get you anything?” Cabot interrupts her thoughts, wryly. He’s drying a glass with a small dish rag, barely glancing up as he speaks. “Or are you planning on standing there all night?”

Noelle has a fleeting thought, back to Skyhold and back to Cullen, that barely registers as she pulls out a bill from her pocket. “Uh, I’ll have another beer and then three muffins please.  The chocolate chip ones. Would it work to put two into a bag for when I’m about to leave?”

Cabot takes her money, but arches an eyebrow. “Don’t you have food at home?” Still, he only passes one of the muffins to Noelle.

Noelle shrugs. “They’re not all for me.”

“Whatever suits you,” he says.

Lord help her, she’s a soft touch.

 

 

 

Dorian’s friend is something. Noelle isn’t sure what. He crosses the room with his hand on Dorian’s shoulder and chuckling warmly. Dorian still looks remarkably put-upon but the serious matter they were discussing appears to have resolved. There’s a lull in the music, Garret leaning over the back of the piano and whispering something to Carver. Surely what they’re saying is supposed to be secret, but the microphone is still on, and the whole room is hearing fragments of “Carver, there’s this girl that I met out at the Hanged Man - I think you’d like her”, while Carver grumbles something about, “stop trying to step me up the last girl was really weird and aggressive”. Noelle hides a laugh behind her hand as Dorian approaches with his friend.

“Hey,” the man says. “Pretty sure I owe you a dance but I’ve gotta take off right away, ‘fraid something came up. I’ll take a rain check on that dance, if that’s perfectly alright. It was a pleasure, miss-?”

He extends a hand, wiggling all three of his fingers. Noelle resists the urge to take off her glove. They almost match. She takes his hand. She’d never believed her fingers to be delicate, but right now her whole hand feels very very small. Christ, Dorian’s friend is _huge_. Noelle grins up at him. “Noelle Trevelyan.” Noelle answers, “And that’s perfectly alright, there’ll always be another Wednesday night party here.”

“Name’s Bull, by the way.” The man smiles.

“A pleasure,” Noelle says.

“Likewise. And Dorian, thanks again. See you around.”

Dorian nods. “Of course.”

And with that, Bull is heading for the door.

 

“'Dorian', huh.” Noelle remarks, and he flushes. Not even Mr. Pavus, where has polite society gone?

“It’s nothing.”

“Dorian Pavus, we both know that’s not the case. Who was that?”

“That was Bull.” Dorian stops there, and Noelle glowers. It’s hardly that simple and they both know it. After a moment, his shoulders sag and he sighs. “That was The Iron Bull. I do suppose you’ve heard of him.”

Bull. I do suppose you’ve heard of him.”

Noelle blinks. And then it clicks, realization hitting her like a punch to the stomach. She should have put it together soon.. Bull on it’s own is a strange name, but The Iron Bull, that’s someone. The article is important.  The man behind the name has a been a bit of a rumour, all myths and brutal legend. The Capone of Red Lyrium. Slowly taking over the underground trade. There’s been little more than that in the press.

What there is an abundance of is lyrium. During the war, pilots flying long distances  often had to stay awake for lengthy periods of time. The solution to this was lyrium. A sort of stimulant that keep the pilots awake to complete their journey. The year or so Noelle had been in London, she’d heard rumors about it. Seen soldiers a little too jumpy, or a little too strung out. Not surprisingly, the rest of societies addicts took to lyrium like a fish takes to water.

But of course, things never stay stagnant for long. So what should have been a regular old drug problem has quickly risen to something of an all-out crisis. Red lyrium appeared out of thin air a year and a half ago, the manufacturers elusive and vague. The distributors themselves are just as hard to catch. Cassandra normally works with the police department during the week, in between her own investigating, and it’s been an on-going problem. Either the distribors have friends in high places or they’re just sneaky sons of bitches, but Noele only knows a few that have been caught. Calpernia, a woman from the West End, had been caught a few months back but before the investigation got anywhere, she had died. Red lyrium is like that. Regular old lyrium is plenty deadly and very easy to overdose on, the cops have been trying (in vain) to crack down on it. Turns out, making a more potent version of it also makes it more deadly.

The Iron Bull is assumed to be a code name for one of the distributors, leading one of the smaller mobs called the Chargers. They’re less trouble, typically, than the others. No petty street squabbles, but rumours abound about the Chargers being behind several mysterious murders. It could be true, or it could just be more fear-mongering. It’s always hard to tell.

“Dorian.” Noelle says. “You’re on a first name basis with a mob boss.”

“Oh, really? Strange I didn’t notice that first. “

Always with the sarcasm. Noelle huffs. “Is this who you’ve been working with?”

Dorian pauses, fidgets a bit. Then he leans back, arms crossed. Careful and guarded. “Something like that, yes.”

Therre’s a lot of things Noelle can say here, and they all flash through her head. Worry is prominent, nagging to be careful like a mother hen, but there’s also curiosity, a pinch of anger (because that’s a mighty big secret to keep, reasonable as it may be to keep it), and, amusement.  The Herald's Rest, of all the places to meet, of all the things to do. Noelle snorts a laugh. It’s unwomanly and apparently startling. Both of Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up, and his lips quirk inquisitively.

“Dorian. You danced with a mob boss.”

Dorian blinks. His expression is twisted into a confused frown, like he isn’t entirely sure how to respond. “Yes?” He ventures. “I believe we were both there for that part.”

“Slowly, though-” Noelle continues, “Romantically even.”

“I don’t know if I would go that far.”

“Dorian, he was whispering in your ear-”

“Important things! Work-related things!” Dorian insists, despite the flush on his cheeks.

Noelle laughs. “Whatever you say. He was handsome though.” She says it kindly, a sort of verbal friendly elbow to the ribs, but Dorian still makes a face.

 

 

 

For a man who makes the same salary as Noelle, Dorian drives an awfully sleek car. Smooth, shiny black paint that nearly sparkles in the moonlight. Noelle’s always wondered who exactly he killed to get a car this nice. It’s parked a few blocks down, far enough away to avoid the traffic as everyone leaves The Herald’s Rest. It had seemed practical at the time, but with a paper bag to hold Noelle’s regretting the choice. The cold air bites at her fingers. She’s also regretting leaving her warmer gloves at home. It’s too small, and squishy, to be tucked under her arm, so Noelle has to settle for holding it close to her chest. It does little to help. They chat, amiably, as they leave the Herald’s Rest. Dorian remarks on all manner of things, but the topic of the Iron Bull and work remain noticeably absent.

Dorian opens the door for Noelle, and laughs as Noelle gripes about being able to do it herself. The leather seats are cold even through her skirt, which she pulls tightly around her legs. Dorian cranks the heat himself, and grumbles under his breath about warmer climates. Which in and of itself is bizarre. Before coming to America, Dorian had lived in London with his diplomat parents. London is not, in general, any better in climate. Still, Dorian reacts to winter about as well as a cat does to water. That is to say, poorly and with no small amount of venom.

“When you spend a winter in trenches in France, you earn the right to complain.” Dorian says with a frown.  “So, tell me,-” Dorian tilts his head to the side, casing a short glance over at Noelle. The radio hums, playing a soft song, and Dorian taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Where am I taking you?”

Presumably, what Dorian means is: home, or are we going to The Red Jenny?

"Just drop me off at the office, please."

Dorian gives her a look. "Afraid of my advances,  are you? I assure you I can be a perfect gentleman."

Noelle laughs. Her hands tighten on the fold of the paper bag in her lap. "I've heard that line before. I should rather keep my dignity intact, thank you very much."

The main roads are still busy, and Dorian grumbles about drivers and cars and road laws. Moments like these, Noelle doesn’t regret her lack of car.

After a few blocks, Dorian pulls to the curb, and glances at the bag in Noelle's lap. He wiggles his eyebrows."Tell your dignity not to work too late!"

 

 

 

Skyhold Quarterly gets a lot creepier past 10 PM. The building aches and creaks like it's trying to free itself from its foundations. It’s entirely possible it makes this sound during the day, but it’s drowned out by the sound of actual life. Noelle tries to walk softly. It’s not as if anyone’s there to catch her, but something in the air makes her feel like she needs to be sneaking. Times like these, alone in creepy buildings, she wishes her mother hadn’t been so fond of ghost stories. As the head of the local woman’s institute, she was (and still is), always arranging seances and seances. It had delighted all the older ladies, but it had given Noelle no shortage of nightmares.

Then again, she’d prefer ghost nightmares over the ones she has these days.

The light of Cullen’s office sets everything in a sickly yellow glow. It's better than pitch darkness, of course, but not by much.  Long shadows shift ominously, making everything seem larger and scarier. Mr. Rutherford himself is outlined through his opened door. He is staring out the window along the back wall, his back to the rest of the office. There's a tightness to his shoulders, visible from across the room, that makes Noelle suspect it may not be a wise time to surprise him.

She clears her throat as she approaches the office door. Even with the slight warning, Cullen starts when he sees her. There are bags under his eyes, and rubs at them as if he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. It’s no wonder he’s tired, if he’s truly been in the office all day. Twelve hours of anything is a lot.

"Oh! Er, Ms. Trevelyan. Isn't it a little late?" He straightens his tie nervously. "May I help you?"

Noelle pauses. Now that she's here this doesn't feel quite so well thought out. The bag feels ten times heavier, like she’s bringing Cullen bricks instead of muffins. It no longer feels like a kind favour it just feels weird. Hesitation beats through her like a second heartbeat. Which would have been great, about five minute ago, when she still had the chance to go home. There’s no going back now. Noelle clears her throat.

"No, actually. I was..well. I was going out to tonight, and left my wallet at home. I came by around six, I noticed that you were still here and…well, the snacks in our fridge are old and gross. Dorian mentioned that you’d probably forgotten to eat. So." Noelle shakes the bag in her hand. "I brought some food."

She drops it, awkwardly, on the desk. Cullen states at it like he isn't sure what to do.  

“It’s just muffins, so, you know, it’s nothing fancy-” Noelle trails off as Cullen looks at her. His expression has grown soft, if incredulous. Noelle’s heartbeat stutters in her chest.

"I…thank you." He speaks so softly that Noelle barely hears it. “Muffins are more than fine.”

He’s still smiling at her. There’s a newfound heat in Noelle’s cheeks, and a thumping in her chest. “Oh, good,” she says, quickly. “That’s…perfectly good.”

Cullen nods, almost numbly.

“So,” Noelle manages once the silence has dragged on for a bit too long. “What’s got you working so late?”

“Oh, the usual,” Cullen says, with a small laugh, “Trying to convince half the newsmen to hand in an article on time is like herding cats. How about you? What’s got you - well, not working late, but out so late?”

“Dorian and I went dancing at the Herald’s Rest.” Noelle gestures towards the door with her head. “I was actually just popping by to just drop it off and head home.”

She starts to excuse herself, but Cullen cuts her off.

"May I walk you home?" Cullen  says the words too quickly, tripping over them. "It's too late to let you go on our own."

His comment makes Noelle bristle. "I can look after myself, Cullen."

"I didn't- I mean, I know.” Cullen raises his hands, placatingly. “I had no intention of implying you couldn't. However, it would give me some peace of mind to know you got home safely. This isn't the safest of neighborhoods."

Noelle thinks, strongly, about saying no and leaving on her heel. He isn't wrong, though. Sera is always talking about scrapes and scuffle outside of the Red Jenny at this time of night. Noelle sighs and tries to act as if her handsome boss walking her home is a burden.

"Fine."

The silence is thick until they make it to the street. Noelle isn't sure what to say, and cullen looks like he has something to say but isn't sure how. Then Cullen gives her a sideways look and asks, "So how are you?"

His tone has a gentle edge to it, the kind that means he isn't asking just for formality. It makes Noelle feel uneasy.

"Withering creatively, thanks," Noelle answers sharply. It’s perhaps blunter than she needs to be, and she feels guilty almost right away. The first few weeks after Haven, sure, she could handle the prying questions. She didn’t like them, they were constant reminders of the worst weekend  of Noelle’s life, but she could handle them. Now, though, it’s been over two months and she’s growing tired of it. It happens less now, at least. Mostly when she phones her mother.

Cullen chuckles, and it isn't what Noelle expects. When she’d complained the other he wasn’t so amiable about things.  His good humour is taking the wind out of her sails. "I suppose I did deserve that."

Noelle stops, and stares, and bites her lip.  “No,  Mr. Rutherford - I shouldn’t have snapped-”

Cullen exhales heavily and raises a hand. "Ms. Trevelyan, I understand you've been having a hard time with the entertainment section and I'm - well, I'm sorry. You have to understand, what you went through was," Cullen stops for the briefest of seconds. He frowns, and his expression starts to soften. "Was difficult, and I was wary about how jumping back into things would affect you. I didn't want to see you hurt anymore than you already were." His voice gets low, and unsteady.

"Yes, well." Noelle’s cheeks are flushed red. "You should have asked before deciding what was best for me."

"I - of course." Cullen chuckles again. "I suppose I keep forgetting I'm not in the RAF anymore."

“Oh,” Noelle responds for lack of anything better to say. “Army boy, then? You’ve never mentioned that before.”

"Yes, well." Cullen scratches the back of his neck. "It's not exactly my favourite period of my life." Noelle doesn't miss the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

Noelle isn't entirely sure what to say, and Cullen’s expression is slowly taking on a far away look. Then, abruptly, Cullen starts walking again. Noelle hurries to catch up. The air is colder than Noelle expected, and she crams her hands into her pockets.

Cullen gives her a look. "Are you cold?"

"No." Noelle lies. Cullen starts taking off his jacket anyway.

"Cullen, no." Christ is she blushing again? Maybe her cheeks are just red in the cold. Cullen pauses with his jacket half off. His shirt underneath looks thin, a light white cotton. He’d freeze far faster than Noelle. "I'm fine, keep your jacket."

"Are you sure?"

"You know, I think I've lived through colder." Noelle cracks a small smile. 

Cullen gives her a long look. He does an awful lot of looking, Noelle notices. This whole walk, it’s been an awful lot of long glances. What must be going on in that head of his? He's been unceasingly dour the past few weeks. Cullen grins, slightly rueful. The change is unsettling. He pulls his jacket back on. “If you’re sure.”

For the city that never sleeps, the streets are mostly empty. Occasional cars drive by, leaving flurries of slush in their wake. The only other sound is the crunch of snow beneath their feet. Noelle enjoys the silence. It isn't a deafening one, the sort that feels crushingly alone. It's a cozy silence, underneath the warm glow of street lights. Still, Noelle should have brought a warmer jacket.

"The RAF, huh?" Noelle watches Cullen closely, noting the way his shoulders tense and he stares down at the sidewalk. "So you're from London, then?"

As if she couldn’t tell from his accent.

The line of questioning seems to give him pause. "I- no, actually. Honnleath, actually."

Noelle frowns. She's never heard of it,  but that's not surprising in and off itself. She spent most of her time in England in London itself.

"It's barely more than a hamlet," Cullen continues, "A little north of London, I don't think many people notice it unless they're from it. 

I remember the first time my mum took my sisters and I to London, I was shocked. So many people! I think New York would have given me a heart attack had I known how big it was."

Noelle laughs. “So, it’s small then.”

“Very much so. It’s been some time since I’ve been there, but I imagine it’s not much different. No one ever really seemed to come or go, much. I’m certain the same family has owned the grocery store there since it opened in the nineties. There was a little girl who used to work there, she’d stand out front in her pigtails and a skirt and shout at people to come look at her granddad’s tomatoes. You could hear her all over town. I’d say it was effective, but it’s not as if we had anywhere else to go.”

Cullen sounds so terribly fond, a wistful look in his eye. There's a sort of longing to, like the memories are pulling at his heartstings. Noelle can almost feel it just by looking at him. Honnleath sounds almost quaint, and Noelle pictures rolling grassy hills with cobbled roads and small white houses. It’s the sort of place she can’t picture Cullen.For a man that is invested in his work a smal quiet village hardly seems like the place for him. He’d go mad, certainly.

“You must miss it,” Noelle says.

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. “I do.”

The way he says it makes Noelle wish she had taken the time to travel while she was in London. Her time overseas hadn’t allowed her much time to truly appreciate any of it.

The Red Jenny comes and goes, neon sign flickering in evening light, and the walk is surprisingly companionable. If cold. Noelle almost finds herself wishing she had taken Cullen’s jacket. The cold is sneaky like that, finding a way to settle through your skin into your bones. Noelle rubs her hands together. There are few other people on the street at this time of night. Either the air is too cold, or it’s simply too late for a Wednesday night. Even the usual troublemakers seem to have gone somewhere else, thank God. Even with Cullen, Noelle isn’t exactly hoping for a fight.

They’re coming up on Noelle’s apartment building when Cullen asks, “So, how about you?”

“Pardon?”

“Where are you from? I don’t believe I ever asked.”

Noelle doesn’t believe they’ve ever had the chance. “Upstate, actually. I grew up on my Grandmother’s estate with my mother and brother.”

“And your father?”

Noelle pauses, for only a fraction of a second, and Cullen is already stumbling over himself.

“I apologize, that was forward, I shouldn’t have pried. It wasn’t -You don’t need to answer that.”

“It’s fine,” Noelle says, with the smallest laugh. She stops for a second, tries to think. “I’m just not sure how to discuss my family’s drama with strangers.”

Cullen flinches. “Ah, of course.”

Noelle grits her teeth. She needs to work on her word choices. Strangers is a bit harsh. Or, extremely harsh. “Well. This is me.” She says, instead of apologizing like she should. Noelle nods towards the building. 204 Ostwick Avenue curves above the doorway, in shiny gold numbers.  Cullen follows her gaze. “Thanks for walking for me home, Mr. Rutherford.”

He smiles, though it’s thin. Falteringly, he holds out his hand as if he isn’t entirely sure what he should be doing with it. Noelle understands the feeling. How does one say goodbye to their boss? Her grandmother would probably tell her to kiss him on the cheek. That’s what a proper lady would do. Her grandmother had always been a little old-fashioned, however. She’d likely roll in her grave to learn Noelle had allowed an unmarried man to walk her home unchaperoned. Noelle takes his hand, even through the gloves his hands are warmer than Noelle’s.

“It was my pleasure,” he says. “Have a good evening,”

“You, as well.” Noelle gives a small wave as he climbs the cement steps to the front door.

Cullen waves back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ah, yes. Tomorrow. Printing day. Likely her article is already on the press to be ready fr tomorrow. Dread rises slowly in Noelle’s stomach as she takes the stairs up to her apartment on the fourth floor. Jesus H. Christ, he’s nice to her for maybe twenty minutes and she’s been completely derailed. Because oh, now he’s not some angry boss figure, out to ruin her career for petty reasons. No, now he’s nice. Noelle scowls.

She’s royally fucked this one up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look they're all emotionally constipated dorks.  
> This is also a lesson in impulsiveness. Don't be like Noelle kids.


	5. Chapter 5

**SKYHOLD QUARTERLY**

**February 13th 1947**

**ENTERTAINMENT**

**Skyhold Bachelor, and Bachelorettes**

 

_With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, we here at Skyhold Quarterly would like to wish you a wonderful day with your loved ones. On the following page you’ll find date recommendations and activities going on all around our wonderful city for you to take your special guy or gal to._

_For those of you spending the day alone, worry not, you’re not alone. Skyhold Quartely has it’s share of charming Bachelors and Bacheloretes, all waiting for the right person to come along. In honour of the holiday, we are pleased to present Skyhold Quarterly’s Most Eligible Singles:_

 

_Varric Tethras_

_Varric is our resident writer, you may recognize him from his romance serials. What you may not know is our burly, manly writer carries this passion into his everyday life. If you are looking for him, you can find at the Hanged Man, shirt unbuttoned, and drinking the finest ale there is. He likes good drinks, and good books, and above all else, good company._

 

_Cassandra Penteghast_

_Cassandra is our primary crime writer. This tall, dark, drink of water is tough as nails. Fellas, this is a lady that looks like she could fight a bear. Not that she would, but if she had too, she would. Don’t let that fool you, however, Cassandra has a soft side and enjoys poetry and crooners like Tony Martin and Peggy Lee. So if you want a woman who could beat you in an arm-wrestling contest while reciting Shakespeare, this is your gal!_

 

_Dorian Pavus_

_Ladies and Gents, Dorian Pavus is the fine wine of people. Sporting impeccable dress sense, and an even finer moustache, there is no one better to show you a good night on the town. Sophistacted, sleek, and handsome to boot. Dorian likes the finer things in life , such as bitter wines and Tevinter Operas. Though he will deny it when asked, Dorian also appreciates the simple things. If you really want to treat him to a good time, get him some good old American beer._

 

_Rylen Griffon_

_There is little to say about our dear printer Rylen Griffon. This is the man who makes sure this paper will be printed and ready for your morning coffee, but otherwise is ultimately secretive. Where is he from? Good question, dear readers. From his brogue, we here at Skyhold Quarterly have assumed his place of origin to be Scotland but he has neither confirmed nor denied this. Regardless, this man of mystery has captured the heart of Skyhold Quarterly’s employees. Unfortunately, we cannot offer much in terms of how to impress him, but know this: he is handsome, and he is mysterious, and sometimes that is all a woman really needs._

 

_Lace Harding_

_Lace Harding may be small, but don’t let that fool you. Her 110 pound is entirely made of sugar and kindness. Lace loves roller-blading, ice-skating, anything that goes fast and has wheels._

 

_Cullen Rutherford_

_Last, and most certainly not least, is our editor-and-chief Cullen Rutherford. Sources have confirmed that, in high school, Mr. Rutherford was known as ‘Lips’. When asked why, all refused to comment except for a sly girlish giggle. In his spare time, Mr. Rutherford enjoys long walks through central park and finding ways to have less spare time.  This handsome, hardworking journalist is the sort of man you’d be proud to bring home to your mother._

 

 

 

“What, exactly, is this?” Cullen demands, shoving the Entertainment section into Noelle’s hands the moment she walks through the door. She blinks, blearily, and stares. Most of her night had been spent tossing and turning. Some small part of her mind is surely still tucked into bed. The rest of it is still a few steps behind, hurriedly trying to catch up.

“The paper?” Noelle answers, glibly, despite Cullen’s unimpressed stare. She’d barely made it to her desk when Dennit had stopped her, a worried crease between his brow. He always complained the job was aging him, while pointing at his grey hairs and new wrinkles. This completely discounted the fact the he was a) aging, and b) was the father of a somewhat reckless horse jockey who wouldn’t stop bringing horses home. Skyhold Quarterly sounds more like a vacation than anything else. With her stomach falling firmly to her feet, she made her funeral march to Cullen’s office. There’s no words for Cullen’s expression. His eyes are narrowed, overshadowed by angry eyebrows and a small frown. There’s a twitch in his lips, as if a whole other expression is grappling for control.

“This is not what I sent to the printer’s yesterday. And, interestingly, when I asked Rylen about it, he lied. Now, I’m not sure how well you know Rylen, but that’s unlike him. Very unlike him, in fact. So, I have one question for you, Ms. Trevelyan.” Cullen leans back against his desk, resting both hands along the edge. It’s too casual for the professional, level stare he’s giving Noelle. “How much did you pay Rylen?”

“Pardon?”

“How much did you pay Rylen?” Cullen repeats. “There’s no way this slipped past my desk without my noticing, and frankly I don’t think he’d print this if you asked him nicely. It must have been one hell of an offer.” He arches one eyebrow. “So, how much?”

It takes Noelle a moment to answer. When she does, it comes out as a barely more than a mumble. The sound of blood rushing to her cheeks is probably louder.

“I’m sorry?” Cullen frowns.

“A weeks pay.”

If this hadn’t felt ridiculous before, it sure does as an incredulous expression washes over Cullen’s face. His jaw drops, and he gestures aimlessly. There’s  moment of sputtering before he gets out an, “A weeks - Jesus Christ.” He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. Noelle is expecting a lot of things in this moment. Mostly to be yelled at and then fired. So she squares herself up, prepared for the worst. Cullen’s face is buried in his hands, so she can’t see his expression, but his shoulder’s begin to shake. The thought he could be laughing is so far-fetched that at first she believes he’s crying, perhaps over the state of the paper he’d worked so hard for or the fact the general public now thinks his nick-name is “Lips”. Finally, an actual chuckle works it’s way through Cullen that’s followed by an actual honest-to-god laugh. Noelle finds herself frozen completely, unable to respond in any way besides abject terror.

“My God,” he manages. “You paid twenty-five dollars to have this published? You must have been-” He laughs again. It takes some visible effort to compose himself, before he straightens. “I’m sorry, but truly?”

Noelle is so stunned all she can do is nod.

“Well,” Cullen says, and then stops. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand, like he’s trying to hold the laughter in. That works about as well as catching water with an flat palm, and laughter still bubbles out.

Well, indeed. Noelle’s starting to suspect this is all a mad-cap dream.

“You must really have been frustrated to print this,” Cullen says finally. He still sounds vaguely amused, like he’s heard overheard a joke he wasn’t supposed too and is trying not to let on.  He shakes his head, and mumbles something quietly to himself. He turns, starts to head back to his desk. It feels as if a play has been cut short just before it’s climax. This should be where she gets yelled at, scolded for breaking the rules, and then promptly fired. That was when she was going to pull out her secret weapon: Leliana. It’d be a hell of an opportunity, and Cullen isn’t fool enough to pass up on that. If she was unlucky, she’d then be granted permission to enter the Empress’s court,  get the interview, and sell it to the Saturday Evening Post. That was, if her plan hadn’t gone to hell in a handbasket.

“You’re not going to fire me?” Noelle blurts out.

Cullen stops. The look he shoots Noelle is utterly perplexed. “Should I?”

“You tell me!” Noelle says, frustration and confusion bubbling over. “I bribed Rylen, and wrote this ridiculous and utterly unprofessional article, which, by the way, no one consented to be in. Doesn’t this at least deserve a formal reprimand? There’s certainly something journalistic ethics code I’ve broken as well. And you’re just…letting it go?”

Cullen tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not entirely sure what you want from me.”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know.” Noelle throws her hands into the air. After a shrug, and a moment’s consideration, she says, “Yell at me, maybe?”

“Would that…help?”

“Maybe?”

Cullen sighs, a frustrated and weary sound. He scratches the back of his neck as he speaks: “Ms. Trevelyan, I’m not about to yell at you.”

“Oh.”

The stare he gives Noelle is heavy. There’s a question behind his hazel eyes, “Did you want me to fire you?”

Strangely, not a question she’s ready for. Because in theory, yes, that’s what she had planned for. But “want” is a funny little word, not always helpful or wise. OR well thought out, as the case may be. In the office, surrounded by papers and chaos and the clamour of the office, Noelle feels centered.`The world is turning around her, and here she can spin with it. Anywhere else and she feels two steps behind and desperately trying to catch up. Suddenly, she needs to find an point in a thought process Noelle had only thought of in broad strokes, all messy lines and little thought for the finer details. What what happens now. Cullen’s frowning, slightly. Whether because he’s angry or upset at the thought, Noelle isn’t sure. It is impossible to tell.Just the other day, surely, she’d have dismissed it as him being ready to be rid of her. The previous night changed things. And not just because of the beer. He’d been kind, apologized, and now Noelle is seeing things that she maybe wouldn’t have before. The concern in his eyes, the worried way he rubs at his neck. How frustrating, seeing a person as a full person. You’d think she’d know better. Any journalist worth their salt knows the danger of replacing a person with a caricature. And here she is, doing it in person.

Christ, it’s a wonder she wasn’t fired earlier.

“No.” Noelle says finally.

It may just be a trick of the light, but a visible look of relief passes over CUllen’s face for the briefest of seconds. “Then I suppose there’s a conversation we need to have.” He gestures to the chair next to Noelle. He sinks into his chair with a sigh, and it squeaks loudly under his weight. Noelle sits down gently, and tugs at the hem of her dress.

“Obviously, this can’t happen again.” Cullen says plainly. With a tilt of his head, he gestures towards a pile of letters on his desk. “People keep sending these in, all addressed to me directly. Except-” Cullen pulls a letter out of the pile, still sealed in a cheap envelope. “For this one.”

He passes it to Noelle. The handwriting is neat, almost meticulously so, as if someone made very sure to make it legible. It’s addressed to Skyhold Quarterly, but where a name should be, it’s simple addressed to “Lips”. Noelle laughs before she can stop herself. Cullen’s face is screwed up in distaste, but there is a definite twitch to his lips.

“I imagine this confused some poor mailroom clerk,” she says. If this is how they addressed it, Noelle is desperately curious to see what they wrote inside. She swallows the temptation and puts it back down on the desk.

“This confused everyone,” Cullen tells her, “None of us were sure who “Lips” was until Varric piped up. Seemed mighty pleased himself, actually. It wasn’t quite how I planned to start my Thursday morning, I’ll admit. Luckily, this appears to have been warmly received. Someone tried to phone and ask for Cassandra’s hand in marriage - it went about as well as expected.  However, you did this for a reason, and I’m interested to know what that is.” Cullen leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk.

“After three months writing about musicians and editing movie reviews I started to feel like I was stagnating, and since you were so difficult to speak too, I got your attention through other means. Evidently, it worked.  I was expecting for you to try and fire me, however.” Noelle shrugs.

“’Try to’?” Cullen raises an eyebrow.

“See, here’s the interesting bit.” Noelle stretches out. She starts to lean back but stops, and starts to shift forward instead. The chair squeaks loudly. “I’ve had enough time of my hands to do some work of my own. It seemed like I should have some sort of incentive for you to keep me around. I suppose you’ve heard about the Empress’s visit?”

“Alleged visit,” Cullen says with a nod.

“Two scouts have been at the same shows as I have, sat next to ‘em a couple times. They’ve been looking into finding someone to perform for the empress when she’s here. They don’t talk particularly quietly, thankfully. For the sounds of it, Lady Leliana is their top pick.”

Cullen blinks “Are you positive? Everyone else has only speculated that’s she’s coming. Christ, even the Times hasn’t verified anything.”

If Cullen is this impressed by simply confirming the rumours, he’s going to be mighty pleased when Noelle gets to the good part. She smiles. “Unless two Orleasian men are working for a different Empress, but Lady Leliana all but confirmed it.  I spoke to her at the Hanged Man. Figured after working so closely all these years, I  probably had an in.”

Realization dawns slowly on Cullen’s face.

Noelle clears her throat. “There’s nothing confirmed yet, but if Leliana is chosen to perform for Empress Celene, I may be accompanying her to record her performance.”

There’s a pause, where Cullen folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “What does Leliana get out of this arrangement? She’s normally not so..altruistic.”

“There’s no interview.” Noelle says. “The Empress, so far as I know, hasn’t spoken to directly to a news source since her takeover in ‘41.”

The Orleasian Empire was hardly known for it’s stability. During the revolution, all those years ago, a small section of southern France had broken off into the Empire of Orlais. You ask any Orleasian, and they’ll tell you Napoleon the name of his French Empire from them as if Orlais had been the first Empire in all of recorded history. Their politics never evolved beyond the scheming of medieval monarchs. It is all murderous plots and coded messages. At least, if Lady Leliana is to be believed. In the 1940’s, somehow the Emperor had been murdered. No one was ever caught, but not too long after Empress Celene took the throne. She was officially crowned in 1941, and hasn’t given a public interview since. She was hardly active before, however. Orleasian politicians are incredibly tight-lipped about government life.

“She outright refused every offer during the war. There’s no chance they’ll let me if they so much as think I want a story from the Empress. So she’s out.  And no interview with Leliana, either. She needs to be free to take her words to the other magazines and papers that will surely be clamouring to hear everything about a brief glimpse into the Empress’s court. It’s not ideal, certainly, but we must have interviewed Lady Leliana at least four times already.  Let her take it elsewhere. We get a first-hand glimpse into the Empress’s court, which is close to unheard of. And we’ll be the first of the American papers to get anything about her.”

“It’s not a bad arrangement.” Cullen speaks carefully. His expression is curiously blank,  as if he’s unsure on how to respond. “Is any of this official?”

Noelle shakes her head. “No. Leliana assured me she’s trying best, and we’ll know as soon as she does. For the meanwhile, she did suggest that I try and attend a few bigger events. With how snobby the Orleasian courts are, it makes sense. They’re not going to let just anybody in.”

Something seems to click with Cullen. He straightens, sharply, and begins rummaging through his desk. “That would explain…” Cullen trails off as he pulls open a drawer. “Ah-ha, that would explain why I received this. Two passes to the fundraising event in Crestwood next week. Dennit and I weren’t able to figure out why Leliana sent these in. There are a lot of big names on the guest list.”

“Crestwood…” It takes Noelle a moment to connect the dots. “That was where that blizzard was, right?”

One of those sweeping white-out blizzards, it had just narrowly missed New York City. Instead, Crestwood - a small down about an hour or two out of the city limits hit the brunt of it. It had all been a great deal more expensive than the town could handle. The wind knocked down power lines and trees as easily as if they were paper. One of the trees had toppled over into the hospital, Noelle wasn’t sure of the exact death and injury toll, but much of those in the intensive care unit had passed away, as well as those in theIron Lungs. The thought almost made Noelle’s stomach turn. Withering away in a hulking metal machine was never ideal, but to die trapped inside one in the midst of a blizzard? Absolutely terrifying.

Cullen nods solemnly. “Yes. The fundraiser is going to help pay for repairing the hospital. I imagine that one of the tickets is meant for you, then.”

“And the other?” It’s not as if Noelle has anyone to bring along. Dorian, perhaps, but likely he’s too busy.

“For Cassandra, I presume. Some members of the Seekers are attending as well. I hope that’s alright, unless you’re…or you were, planning on bringing someone.” Cullen flushes, every so slightly, as he tapers off. Still, he peers inquisitively at Noelle.

Noelle finds herself biting her lip. “No, there is no one. Cassandra should make a great traveling companion.”

“If she doesn’t strangle you before you leave, that is. I got the impression she wasn’t entirely impressed with this stunt you pulled.”

 

 

 

Unimpressed may be putting it lightly. Cassandra’s already there when Noelle enters the Red Jenny after work, and immediately her expression twists into something angry. Noelle falters in the doorway. She only continues when Dorian, distracted in conversation with Varric, bumps straight into her.

“I believe it’s ladies first,” Dorian says, pushing on her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah.” Noelle leaves several seats between her and Cassandra at the table. As Noelle slips into her seat the flimsy grin she flashes barely gets a reaction from Cassandra, who simply grunts and continues to shuffle the deck of cards in front of her.  Organizing poker nights had become something of a hassle early on, largely because no one was willing to host. No one has ever seen Varric’s house. Each time it had been his turn, he’d invited everyone to the Hanged Man instead. Dorian refused to ever do it again after Sera spilled red wine all over Dorian’s carpet.  The last time it had been at Noelle’s place, Cassandra had gotten so angry over some drunken argument she’d thrown the cards out the window. The wind had carried them off, and for weeks the neighbourhood children had found them over the courtyard.

Sera had been working when it was her turn to host, but instead of canceling she invited everyone to the Red Jenny. “Not like I do any real work anyway, may as well have some fun” she’d said, when Cassandra hadn’t approved. Not as if Cassandra’s opinion mattered, as here they still were months later. The only change in venue since had been a brief stint in Ostwick General Hospital while Noelle was there, when they’d crowd around Noelle’s bed and use an old dinner tray as a table.

“Finally whittle down the marriage offers, Pentaghast?” Varric asks, dropping his bag next to the chair and slumping down unceremoniously. Almost like magic, a waitress slides a cup of coffee in front of him. She’s gone before Varric can even get a ‘thanks’ out. Her shoes squeak on the red-and-white tiled floors. All the waitress’s shoes squeak on the floor, like some sort of strange uniform joke. No matter how Noelle scuffs her shoes on the floor, she can never replicate the sound.

Cassandra snorts. “Hardly. I believe one woman tried to offer me her son in exchange for some farmland and a cow. As if I’m just waiting to be bargained off.”

“It’s not a bad deal,” Varric says thoughtfully. “Try and bargain for some chickens and you’d be set.”

Cassandra levels her steely gaze at Varric, who shrugs half-heartedly. “I’m not helping, got it.”

“Oh, come. Surely Cassandra is worth a higher dowry than that,” Dorian chides. “Perhaps some earrings and a nice china set?”

“Of which I want neither.”

“Well, certainly. But I don’t suppose your wants particularly matter in a situation when you’re being paid to marry.” Dorian says with a shrug. “My parents tried it with me once, the girls parents offered no shortage of splendor. I might have set her hair on fire.”

“Might have?” Noelle raises both eyebrows. Dorian’s always been spirited, it would be no surprise to learn he was the same as a child.

Dorian sighs wryly. “I definitely did. And that was the last I heard of that, so I figure it all worked out.”

There’s a loud snort behind them, unmistakably Sera. All her laughs come out like gunshots, sudden and sharp and loud. She rakes her hand through Dorian’s hair, despite his squawks of protest, and laughs. “That’ll teach ‘em, eh? So, we playing cards or what?”

Dorian scowls and fusses with his hair.

“You look fine,” Noelle reassures him with an eyeroll.

“Hardly.”

Sera’s still dressed for work. All the Red Jenny waitresses wear the same red blouse and yellow skirts. It’s an appalling colour combination, and if it’s done to hide ketchup and mustard stains it’s not doing it’s job. Splotches of red pattern themselves across Sera’s wrinkled cotton skirt, and there’s a tinge of yellow on the sleeve of her shirt. Her hair is a disheveled mess, more so than usual. Noelle honestly wonders if Sera has ever heard of a hairdresser’s. It’s cut choppily, like Sera took a pair of scissors to it at home without a mirror. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

“We will be as soon as Cassandra deals,” Varric says. “Shouldn’t you be working, Buttercup?”

Sera shrugs. “Nah, the others Jennies have got it. ‘Sides, not like we’re exactly drowning in customers here. You gonna deal or what?”

The Red Jenny, like every Thursday night, is sparsely populated. Only three waitresses are on staff. Two, now, since Sera appears set on participating in the game. The Skyhold Quarterly staff sit at their regular table, and there’s a young couple in a booth by the window. A cop, still in uniform, leans over the counter on a red-topped barstool. Another waitress rests her hip against the opposite side of the counter and chats idly with him. Every few minutes, Noelle catches her scanning the room as if checking for someone new. Each time, she’s disappointed.

Cassandra deals, wordlessly. It may be that she’s still pissed, or this may be some form of intimidation. Her glower is so steely it could cut through wood.

“How’s your work been, Sparkler?” Varric asks, glancing up from his cards. Noelle doesn’t miss the way his finger trails the rim of his cup. Confident. Maybe a good hand then. Noelle’s isn’t great, and she swallows down a grimace. The only way she’s winning this round is if can bluff. So she sits back and tries to mimic Varric and Dorian’s relaxed posture.

Dorian smooths out his moustache. “The usual amount of mind-numbingly tedious. Don’t worry about missing out on any exciting news stories. I can, however, tell you in great detail the layout of the The War Hound.”

“Isn’t that the seedy pub ‘cross the tracks?” Sera asks.

“The one and the same. Did you know I had to step over a man to use the bathroom?” Dorian shudders. “Horrendous.”

“Sounds like a good night to me,” Sera says with a shrug.

 

 

 

Cassandra only speaks a few sharp words to Noelle all night. It’s better than outright throwing things. Cassandra has one hell of an arm. That doesn’t make Noelle particularly excited to be stuck on a bus with her for several hours, nor a hotel room for a whole weekend.  With the others she responds with the same amount of mild disdain and humour as always.  When Sera makes a crack about Dorian’s ‘tool’ (presumably, referring to the cane Dorian rarely uses), she snorts and rolls her eyes.

“And that’s enough discussing my tool for one day, thank you very much,” Dorian says curtly. This draws an audible snort from the cop at the bar, and Dorian flushes an even brighter shade of red than he was before.

“I think Sparkles is right,” Varric says, throwing down his hand. “And I believe my winning streak continues.” Like always, Varric wins with a self-righteous smug.

Cassandra grunts. “You’re cheating.”

Varric throws his hands up in the air innocently. “If you’d care to prove it, Seeker?”

Cassandra doesn’t challenge him further, only narrows her eyes warily. There’s a history between the two of time Noelle has never figured out. And honestly, at this point, she isn’t entirely sure she wants to know. Any secret Cassandra Penteghast has is likely one Noelle wants no involvement in. Their work friendship suits her just fine.

“Cassandra, have your contacts in the Seekers mentioned anything about the Thom Rainer case? They’re working overseas, are they not?” Dorian asks suddenly. He shifts to lean forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Cassandra pauses, briefly. “My contacts are supposed to be secret.”

Varric laughs. “If they are, you really need to tell Lucius to stop calling the wrong extension.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him again.” Cassandra rolls her eyes. “I don’t believe they know anything about that. Why do you ask?”

Dorian shrugs, and tugs at his moustache. Noelle could have spotted the tell from a mile away. Dorian lies with a sort of casual ease, she’s seen him trick strangers of all sorts of ridiculous thing. Months ago, Dorian had posed as a janitor at Skyhold to try and prove who had been stealing his lunches from the fridge. Somehow he’d convinced the rest of the cleaning staff he actually belonged there. It’s a bit of a different story with his guard down, though. “An old army friend of mine thought they’d met before, but they’re being so hush-hush about everything I hardly know what’s going on.”

What’s he hiding?

“I barely know myself,” Cassandra says with thinly veiled irritation. No one at the table particularly likes being in the dark on matters. Except, of course, for Sera who’s taken to doodling phallic shapes all over a nearby napkin. Her eyes have that glossy look of a student hearing a lecture on William Taft’s tenure as president. “If something comes up that I can tell you, I will.”

“Thank you, Cassandra.” Dorian says with a nod. “I do believe it’s about time I left. Can’t give you too much of me at once, lest we have an overdose. Noelle, did you need a ride home?” Dorian pauses as he tugs on his coat.

Noelle waves him off. “No, but thanks. I should be fine to walk from here.”

“I’ll see you all tomorrow, then. Try not to burn the place down without me.”

The snow’s slowed down, leaving behind a slushy grey mess and little else. The idealistic “White Christmas” snow is gone. It always lasts about a day or two. The city wears that down too, until all that’s left is dirty looking piles of snow that have clearly been trudged through time and time again. The chill is still in the air, but without the wind behind it it’s lost all it’s bite. She’s still not particularly thrilled about the weather, but at least when things are still she can breath. When the wind whistles and rattles everything around her it sets her teeth on edge. Instead, she gets to kick at the snow and properly enjoy a brisk evening snow. People, she’s found, will avoid you so long as you walk quickly and don’t directly look at anyone. Growing up in New York has prepared her for a lifetime of avoiding conversations with strangers. With her gaze fixed firmly ahead, and her hands tucked tightly in her pockets, she begins to make lists. She leaves in a week for a full weekend up north in Crestwood, and there’s all sorts of thing she needs to remember to bring. And do.

First on the list: Stay out of trouble.

Which is one of those things that’s easier said than done. It shouldn't be too hard, at least. The Relief Benefit has attracted the attention of all sorts of celebrities. If the elite Seekers are attending, it’s clearly not just your average fundraiser. There’s been rumours in small gossip mags about Johnny Carson and Marilyn Monroe performing, but since the schedule has been circulated for weeks, that’s doubtful. It wouldn’t surprise Noelle to see either of them lurking around in the audience. As it stands, most of the performers are locals. Zither is going to be there (Zither is, bafflingly, always there), the Andrew’s Sisters are putting on a number (without Bing), and if Dean Martin is headlining there’s always a chance Sinatra or Sammy Davis Jr. Will make an appearance. That should be enough of a story.

Second on the list: Apologize to Cassandra.

Which should be easy, but Cassandra is scary and furious. Noelle will save that for the bus ride. On public transit there’s less of a chance she’ll be murdered.

Noelle kicks at the snow as she makes her way down the street. She’s starting to regret turning down Dorian’s offer of a ride by the third block. The air is cold again, nipping at her skin. Most of it, at least. Noelle’s nose remains impervious to the cold. Impervious to all things, in fact.

The walk back from the Red Jenny is something almost instinctive now, Noelle could probably do it backwards with her eyes closed. It’s so natural, now, that she hardly pays attention as she dodges couples on late evening walks. She definitely should be paying more attention, however, as she winds up just about slamming into some.

“Sorry!” Noelle says, throwing her hands up in the air. “I wasn’t paying attention - Mr. Rutherford?”

He looks just as startled. “Mrs. Trevelyan. What are you doing out so late?”

“Just leaving the Red Jenny, actually. What about you? This is quite a way from your apartment, isn’t it?”

Cullen looks around, as if just noticing his surroundings. Christ, he looks tired. Did he look like this all day? The bags under his eyes aren’t new. But now he looks...strung out. And cold. His cheeks are flushed, the tip of nose a bright shade of red. “I went for a bit of a walk. I guess I got lost in thought.” He chuckles, but it’s forced.

“Looks like you got very lost.” Noelle says. She tilts her head, squinting at his face. She _wants_ to poke at his nose, to see how cold he is. With Dorian, or probably anyone else, she wouldn’t hesitate. Cullen, however, looks uncomfortable enough just under her gaze, so Noelle stills her hand. “You look cold.”

Cullen shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed.” He sounds surprised.

Noelle steps closer, placing a hand on his arm. He’s clearly not well. Cullen flinches as if she shocked him. “Why don’t you come to my place for a drink? You look like you need to warm up.”

He moves his arm away. “No - I. Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be proper.”

Noelle laughs. He sounds like a proper gentleman. “Mr. Rutherford, it is 1947. I am allowed to go out in public without a chaperone, and I can invite whomever I want back to my place.” She pauses. “For..you know, for drinks. I don’t just invite men up to my place all the time.”

Cullen is starting to turn redder. It is almost astounding how poor of a picture Noelle is continuously painting of herself.

“Look,” Noelle sighs. “Just accept my offer so I can stop making a fool of myself. You look as if you’re about to freeze to death.”

Cullen sighs. "Ms. Trevelyan, I can't-"

"Mr. Rutherford,  _please_." She puts on her sternest expression, the one that leaves the least amount of wiggle-room, and Cullen appears to cave. 

 

 

 

Thank the Lord for small mercies, the apartment isn’t in shambles. There’s the odd blouse draped over the back of a chair or couch, but no undergarments littered over the floor. Noelle kicks her boots off at the door and hangs her coat on the rack by the phone. Cullen quickly follows suit.

“Make yourself at home,” Noelle says, “Turn on the radio if you want. I’ll go put the pot on.”

“Thank you.” Cullen sighs, seemingly contentedly.

Noelle putters about the kitchen while Cullen settles in at the small kitchen table. It’s cluttered, this morning’s coffee still out and surrounded by sections of Skyhold Quarterly. Cullen doesn’t seem to mind, at least. It doesn't take long until the kettle on the stove is whislting. Noelle pushes up to sit on the counter next to the stove. The bottle of brandy, half-empty, is open next to her. Cullen is watching Noelle, one arm draped over the back of the chair and the other idly flicking the pages of the paper. The flush to cheeks hasn’t quite faded, and the tip of his nose still looks slightly frost-burnt. Noelle sets about warming two glasses for the brandy. Two wide-bottomed glasses are tucked away in the corner for occasions such as these. Noelle fills them both with the boiling water, swishing them about before dumping the water down the sink drain. With the glass warm to the touch, Noelle fills each with a small amount of brandy. She takes both to the table, placing one in front of Cullen and sitting down across from him with hers. The cup of brandy is comfortingly warm in her palms, and she cradles it gently.

“There,” she says. “If that doesn’t warm you up, I suppose we’ve got bigger problems."

The conversation in the room slows to a halt. She wasn’t about to let her boss get frostbite out in the cold, but treading this line of casual/colleague conversation is tricky. And It was easier when she just worked for Cassandra and didn’t need to directly interact with Cullen.

"So."

"So." Cullen responds. From his wry expression, Noelle gets the feeling he's struggling with the same thing. She's not entirely sure what to say. "How was work" seems too glib, and, well, they work at the same place. The same chaotic humdrum as always. His eyes are crinkled into a smile, but there's bags under his eyes and a crease between his eyebrows. It's a small consolation he looks just as lost for words as she does. His cheeks look warmer now, less wind bitten and more room temperature. His nose, however, seems to born the brunt of the damage.

"How long did you saw you were outside for?" Noelle asks.  It's starting to turn a strange purple shade, and Noelle frowns. Frostbite is an all-too familiar experience in Noelle's life, and she can almost feel the itching sensation all over again. The blisters that are sure to come next will not be any fun. "Your nose looks frostbitten, how is it feeling?"

Cullen frowns, fingers absently moving to the tip of his nose.  "Itchy. Warm. Too warm, I think. I hadn't noticed." His tone is surprised, like he genuinely hadn't registered until this very moment.

Noelle can't keep the confusion from her face. It's hardly a subtle feeling, less like the gentle caress of the wind and wind and more like wearing the world's least comfortable wool sweater. Not the kind your grandma hand-knits, but the one your scatter-brained aunt picks up from a thrift store.  She remembers the feeling all too well. Sometimes late at night, she still feels a bit like that. Waking up under the sheets, but skin feeling bare and rare, that awful itching covering her hands in arms.

"I think I have a first aid kit in the bathroom."

 

It's outdated, old and rarely used, but still tucked away under the sink buried under a thin layer of dust. In a bag next to it are the supplies given to Noelle after her discharge from the hospital. Basically, Noelle has a bag of gauze tucked under the sink. The kind of thing she doesn't have the heart to get rid of but doesn't really need. Except, maybe she will some day. It's ridiculous, she knows. It's not like she lives in a war zone, and if she's getting stabbed she's going to the hospital. She'd met soldiers in London, men who had no problem stitches their wounds closed. That was something else entirely.

The bandages, though, those she has use for. Their main, if scarce, function, is dealing with papercuts. It should work just as well to cover up a frostbitten nose. THere's no magic cream to cure frostbite (sadly), but covering it up will prevent it from getting worse. Ideally. There's still almost no feeling in Noelle's nose. Still, it will do for now. Cullen doesn't seem like the mountaineering type.

The way Cullen is sitting, he looks like he’s dozed off. Head bent forward, shoulder’s slumped and arms hanging limply in his lap. Noelle stops in the bathroom doorway. He looked tired, sure, but this is bordering on narcolepsy.

“Uh. Mr. Rutherford?”

He mumbles something incoherent. Sluggishly, he rubs at his face and looks blearily up at Noelle. It seems to take some effort to sit up straight, and he winces as though it pains him. Noelle unwraps the bandage on the way over, the flimsy plastic stuck to the adhesive tossed t the floor. She’ll sweep this weekend.

Maybe.

“Mr. Rutherford, are you alright?”

It takes a moment for him to notice and take the bandage in Noelle’s hand. He takes it with a mumbled thanks, smoothing it out over the tip of his nose. “I’m…alright, just feeling a bit under the weather all of a sudden.”

Noelle huffs a laugh. “You look a bit more than “under-the-weather,” Mr. Rutherford.”

He looks ghastly, honestly. Eyes unfocused, half-closed, swaying just a little bit.

“I think I just need to get home.” Cullen tries to rise, but stops half-way with his hand wrapped tightly around the back of the chair. His knuckles are white.  

“How are you planning on doing that?” Noelle asks. “You’re in no state to walk.”

“I’m fine, Ms. Trevelyan.” Cullen must see how wrong this sounds, because he quickly corrects himself. “I will be fine.”

In this state, he looks liable to topple over into a ditch and freeze to death. Noelle sighs. “Sit down, Mr. Rutherford. I’ll call a cab.”

He tries to wave her off, and it looks as if he’s about to protest again, but Noelle places one hand on his shoulder and gives him a stern look. “I will not be responsible for my boss dying in an alley. Sit down, I’m calling a cab.”

“I-”Cullen starts, easing back down. “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, thank you.”

 

Cullen insists he can walk himself outside to the cab when it arrives, but that tingling sensation of worry currently pooling in Noelle’s stomach cause means she insists on at least walking him to the door.  His walk is unsteady, but gets into the cab and waves at Noelle through the car’s tinted window. Her neighbour is peering out into the hallway when Noelle gets upstairs.

“Certainly a handsome man,” she says, with a wiggle of her eyebrows that make it very clear what she means.

“Good night,” says Noelle, instead of answering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was only in editing this that I realized this chapter ALSO ends with Cullen accompanying Noelle home. This time with probably worse results.


	6. Chapter 6

**_SKYHOLD QUARTERLY_ **

**_July 3rd, 1943_ **

**_NEWS_ **

 

_Refugees from France were denied refuge on the Orleasian Border. Palace officials refused to comment, but border security on all sides of the small Kingdom has been increased._

_-_

_Several soldiers have returned home from the front - notably, one Pt. Hawke and Tethras. They’ll be at the Herald’s Rest for our weekly dance if anyone is interested and coming down and saying hello._

_-_

_Robbery at the Red Jenny went south quickly when robber’s realized that the Red Jenny had no money in the till. Suspects were quickly apprehended by the on-duty police officer sitting in a booth drinking coffee._

 

 

 

 

****Cullen is already at the office when Noelle arrives. She’s five minute late and desperate for coffee, with her hair pulled up into a loose bob. Cullen is standing at Cassandra’s desk, leaning over to examine something closely. Cassandra leans back in her chair, arms crossed and frowning. Both look deeply lost in thought. Noelle decides to talk to Varric instead. Varric, who is tapping a pen rhythmically on the edge of his desk and doing nothing else. While Varric normally stands out in room, largely as a result of his short stature, today his tie is more eye catching than the rest of him. It’s a gaudy orange colour, and looks to be made from the same fabric of an old couch.

“Didn’t realize you’d taken an interest in fashion, Varric,” Noelle jokes. To further the point, she stares pointedly at the tie, tied crookedly, around Varric’s neck. Varric laughs and tugs at it proudly.

“Oh, come on Pinky, you know I’m the pinnacle of style. Why else would my designer friend give me this tie and tell me to wear it around the office?”

Varric’s lips are curved into a small, if slightly pained, smile. Noelle arches an eyebrow. “Hawke gave it to you?”

“Hawke gave it to me.”

“So Hawke’s career as a musician isn’t panning out?”

Varric shrugs. “Hawke’s career as anything rarely pans out, honestly. I’ve told him he can always come work here, but honestly, we’re not entirely sure it’s worth giving Curly a heart attack.”

“Mr. Rutherford knows Hawke?”

Varric laughs. “They’re neighbours. Have been for years, actually, which I’ve heard from both sides is a bit of a nightmare. Hawke is too loud, Curly is too grumpy, and so it goes.” Varric rolls his eyes  good naturedly. “Based on how grumpy Curly looks today, I’m pretty sure Hawke stayed up a bit too late, making a bit too much noise.”

Across the room, Cullen is rubbing at his eyes and trying and failing to stifle yawns. Noelle feels a twinge of pity. Last night, the cab had arrived quite late, driving in blizzards and all that, but who knows how long it had taken for Cullen to get home. It had taken Noelle close to three a.m. to properly fall asleep. There had been a botched attempt around midnight until Noelle had, in some sort of fit, rolled out of bed and woken up facing the dusty underside of her bed. Then she’d finally decided to sweep the whole of her apartment and then just listen to the radio for a while.

“Must be,” Noelle responds faintly. “Actually, you know what, I’m going to put my bag down and go grab some coffee from the Red Jenny. Did you need anything?”

 

 

 

The Red Jenny in the mornings is always full, a line winding around the table of people in their work clothes. Though there are several pots of coffee brewing, and a small fleet of waitresses rushing around, for reasons unknown there’s still a long wait for coffee. Mysteriously, however, Noelle’s noticed the wait is longer the more expensively you’re dressed. Once she’d come in hungover, blouse untucked with last night's makeup smeared on her face, and her coffee had been poured and in her hand almost instantly. Today she’s wearing a vaguely ironed blouse and a grey skirt, looking as prim and polished as everyone else in line. Meaning, then, she’ll have to wait too.

There’s someone new at the cash register today. A young man, with long blonde hair and a gaunt complexion. Each customer walks away looking distinctly unnerved. He speaks softly, so low that Noelle strains to hear when he’s speaking to the person in front of her in the line. Even when she steps up to the counter his “Good morning” comes out in a tone far softer than normal. When Sera is speaking to a customer, you can hear it. Sometimes from across the room. It helps that the woman has never heard of an indoor voice, for sure, and Noelle can hear her chattering away in the kitchen. Something about someone’s ass, like always.

There’s someone new at the cash register today. A young man, with long blonde hair and a gaunt complexion. Each customer walks away looking distinctly unnerved. He speaks softly, so low that Noelle strains to hear when he’s speaking to the person in front of her in the line. Even when she steps up to the counter his “Good morning” comes out in a tone far softer than normal. When Sera is speaking to a customer, you can hear it. Sometimes from across the room. It helps that the woman has never heard of an indoor voice, for sure, and Noelle can hear her chattering away in the kitchen. Something about someone’s ass, like always.

“One coffee, two sugars please,” Noelle orders, instinctively. “Do you happen to know what a Mr. Cullen Rutherford normally gets? Tall, blonde, always looks tired?” This will be fine. The boy is new, unfamiliar, and won’t gossip with the entire office.

The boy at the till blinks, cocking his head to the side. “Black, bitter, burning. Warming the parts of him he thought we were cold.”

“So.” Noelle clears her throat.  "No sugar then?”

“People do that?” The boy asks, sounding shocked. As if he’s never considered coffee could be black. Noelle frowns. Finally, Sera’s tangled mess of hair pops out from the kitchen. She swears, loudly, and swats at the boy until he moves out the way mumbling apologies.

“Oi! Bugger all, sorry about that. That’s Cole, weird little shite that he is.” Sera turns to Cole. “Look, just ‘cause the boss likes don’t mean you can go scaring the customers.”

“I was just trying to help,” Cole says softly.

Sera ignores it, and instead turns to Noelle, “The usual for you?”

“It’s no trouble,” Noelle says to Cole. “The usual for me please, and one black coffee.”

“Running errands, now?” Sera rings her up on the till. As she punches in the total, she looks at up Noelle with a crooked grin. “Get demoted again?”

Noelle laughs. “Surprisingly not, just being kind for once.”

“Gotcha. Gotta butter up that old boss.” Sera winks and Noelle briefly contemplates attempting to drown herself in the nearest bowl of soup. The special today is, like it always is, chicken noodle with celery.

 

 

 

Dennit stops Noelle before she can get to her desk. “Mr. Rutherford’s asked to speak with you, and Ms. Pentaghast. I believe Ms. Pentaghast had an earlier meeting, however, with the usual amount of poorly done secrecy, so she'll be a bit late in joining you. He’s in there now, probably best to go in before someone else calls to propose.”

Dennit is older, balding at the top and clearly past the point of giving a shit about it. In fact, it would appear Dennit gives a shit a about very little. He sips, idly, at a mug of hot chocolate, surveying the whole of the office with such an absent look that it’s immediately clear there are at least three other places he’d rather be. In order, they are:

  1. Home.
  2. The Farm
  3. The Races



It doesn’t take any fancy guesswork, Dennit tells everyone who asks something like “Just took the job so I’d have something to do, sitting around a big farm with nothing gets boring I’ll tell you.”

This whole world of new irrelevant phone calls must be taking it’s toll on him. “Have there been many? Phone calls, that is?”

Dennit grunts. “More than usual, now. Thanks to that stunt you pulled every teen girl in New York city has been calling in to ask Mr. Rutherford out on dates.” Dennit rolls his eyes. “Thank the Lord my daughter is too busy being reckless to try any of this business.”

“She still racing?”

This gets a huff out of Dennit, toeing the line between exasperated and proud. “Don’t think I could get her to stop.” The phone rings, and Dennit groans. “Best go in now, just in case it’s a legitimate concern.”

Noelle raps lightly on Cullen’s doorframe. His radio is on. A dull hum of classical music fills the room. Cullen strikes Noelle as exactly the type of person who would enjoy classical music.

“Ms. Trevelyan, please come in.”  Cullen tugs at his tie. He starts to stand, but instead slams something hard and doubles over. “Oh, sh- I. Please have a seat.” His voice comes out roughly.

“is everything alright?” Noelle asks. She tries to sound kind, she really does, but the laughter sneaks into her tone. He’s biting his lip, as if trying to stop the flurry of curses that he’s visibly holding back.

“I’m fine,” Cullen says quickly, voice strained. “just banged my knee, is all.”

“Ah.” Noelle clears her throat. “I brought coffee.” Noelle says it too quickly. Cullen blinks once, twice, as if he didn’t understand. He straightens, though one hand hovers just above his knee.

“Coffee?” Noelle repeats. A distinct feeling of silliness washed over her. “for you. You know.  To drink. You looked tired. It’s black...I hope that’s alright. The guy at the Red Jenny said that was what you drink – he was a bit odd… so if not it’s fine – I’m sure someone else in the office wants some.”

“Ms. Trevelyan, it’s fine. Honestly. Thank you.” Cullen suddenly becomes very focused on his desk, cheeks flushing and idly flipping through the stack of letters on his desk.. “I like...coffee.”

“Oh. Good.” Noelle says, taking a seat.  Cullen follows suite, and sits down too. “Are you feeling any better? After yesterday and all.”

Cullen scratches the back of his neck. “Only slightly. The coffee should help.”

“That’s good. We’ll.  Not good. But, better. Dennit said you had asked for me?”

“Yes, I had.” Cullen sits a little straighter, like some gear has switched in his head.  “I know you and Cassandra are leaving for Crestwood tomorrow afternoon. In light of your reason for attending, I thought it would be figure out a plan.” Cullen scratches at the stubble forming along his jaw. “If your intention is to impress Celene, how do you intend to go about doing it? Certainly the Empress of Orlais won’t invite anyone to criticize her. The Empires public image is bad enough without some nosy New Yorker saying her concert was bad. What exactly are you planning on doing with this article?”

“The Empress is clearly coming here in a PR bid, there’s no conferences or political summits being held anytime soon. If there were we’d have received an invite, surely-”

“I’d certainly hope so,” Cullen says wryly

“So, I’ll have to talk up this benefit. Make it seem like the event of the year, something people will talk about decades. If nothing else, it will get attention. If we get very lucky, Celene will assume I’ll do the same for her.”

“Will you do the same?”

“Not if I have any shred of integrity in my body! I don’t intend t launch a crusade against the Empress of Orlais, but I certainly have no intention of smothering anyone to death with praise either. That’s a bridge we’ll cross later, though.” This entire thing is dependent on the Empress’s need for good P.R. Which she does need, because it’s been bad, terrible frankly, since the war.

Cullen taps his fingers idly on the desk.  “That’s a good plan. _But_ what if this benefit goes poorly?”

“How do you mean? The headliner performs poorly, or the whole building is destroyed in a freak act of nature poorly?” Noelle takes a sip of coffee.

Cullen almost flinches, but also almost smirks, leading to an expression that looks as if he’s about to sneeze. “No freak acts of nature this time, I hope. However, if the entertainment is bad or the food is undercooked, how are you going to respond? You’re not the only reporter going, it would be foolish to think you can lie about the quality of this.”

Noelle shrugs. “Well, sure, but it is a charity event. I don’t think anyone is willing to openly criticize something like this, can you imagine how horrible complaining about the food at a charity event would look?”

This draws another smile out of Cullen. “Of course, though I do suggest you gauge the mood. Heaping too much praise is going to look just as bad.”  He pauses, sighing and running his hands through his hair. “Good Lord, this is the most thought I’ve put into a entertainment article in years.”

Noelle laughs. “I can’t agree more.”

The past few weeks have been better, regular updates on lounge singers and variety acts, but it’s still little more than a few hours at a typewriter. The rest of her time she’s spent going over reviews and submissions. It’s nothing back-breaking, however. Cullen’s response is a derisive snort as he pulls an old newspaper from his desk drawer.

“Given the amount of work you appear to have put into your Singles Column, I have a hard time believing that’s the case, Ms. Trevelyan.” He tosses Noelle’s column across the desk. “You put an alarming amount of work into making me sound like a catch. I’ve received more date offers in the past two days than I have my entire life.”

“Besides the “Lips” bit, I didn’t ‘make’ you sound like anything. I didn’t really need too.” Noelle says, without thinking. Then she re-reads what, exactly, she wrote and the implication of her words hit her. She opens her mouth, tries to find a way to make it sound like less of a blatant come-on, but she can’t figure it out. Cullen averts his gaze, cheeks turning a shade of pink.

He stumbles over his words for a brief moment. “Uh, thank you, I suppose?”

Noelle is spared from the conversation by Cassandra stepping into the room. “Yes?”

“Ah!” Cullen clears his throat, all flushed cheeks and nerves. If Noelle didn’t feel the same warmth, she’d be inclined to laugh. As it is she stares nervously down at her hands.  Cassandra gives them both a wary look as she enters the room. Cassandra really has a way with disdain. It covers every inch of her expression as if it belongs, and then slowly but surely other begin to wither under it like a flower in the hateful, hateful sun for too long. Noelle knows well enough by now not to stare too long, lest she suddenly feel abruptly and welcomingly shamed. “Please, take a seat.”

Cassandra does so without casting so much as a side glance towards Noelle.

“How was your meeting?” Cullen asks.

“Well enough. Lucius will have the documents ready by tomorrow. Are you still intending to come along, Cullen?”

Noelle looks between the pair. This is news to her.

Cullen, seemingly aware of Noelle’s confusion, coughs and says: “Ah, yes, I hadn’t mentioned - I’ll be leaving sometime Saturday morning to assist Cassandra in her research. It shouldn’t inconvenience you at all, Ms. Trevelyan, unless something is giving you trouble. Now, I have the two of you in the same room at the Washington Motel, which I hope is all right.” Cullen’s tone carries the implication that it doesn’t really matter if it isn’t. “It’s close to the community center where the event is being held. Getting back and forth should be easy, and, as I understand, the motel’s seen its fair share of. Erm. Less than legal activities. You shouldn’t have any trouble if Lucius needs any secrecy, Cassandra.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra says with a little nod.

“You’re welcome. So, it should go without staying, but I’d appreciate it if you both could stay out of trouble. Ms. Trevelyan, you’re there for work purposes only, and Cassandra is simply accompanying you as a guest. Any unwanted attention is going to cause problems for both of you.  Understood?”

Noelle nods, and Cassandra murmurs agreement.

“Good. You two can have the rest of the afternoon off, I’d like you to get your things packed and ready for tomorrow morning.”

An afternoon off is something of a novelty. Not that Noelle has done much in the way of work the past little while, but the office is infinitely better than being at home. She stares out at her bedroom, frowning at the open suitcase on her bed. She hasn’t gone anywhere since Haven, and the suitcase is a stark reminder to find that she had actually not unpacked her bag. Almost four months, in fact, the damned thing had been sitting in the back of her closet. She’d been wearing her winter gear during the avalanche, and much of that was tossed out by the hospital staff. The coat sleeves were red and sticky with blood - she’d hit her head, apparently. Slipped and fallen, had been the doctor's guess. Noelle’s memory of it was too spotty to correct them. It still is, coming and going and waiting for the middle of the night to truly settle in. Thankfully, no skull fractures, just the long thin scar across her forehead.

After a week in the hospital, coming home and unpacking had seemed unpleasantly daunting. In fact, months later, it still is. She puts her hands on her hips, and scowls. Emptying it would be good for her. She can hear Dorian in her head, giving her some sort of therapist-esque pep-talk about clearing out the memories. Then, though, he’d probably offer to go for drinks instead. So Noelle does what Dorian would do, and pours herself a glass of whiskey. Pavus’s Alcohol Therapy, short-term relief for all your problems. Honestly it shouldn’t take liquid courage to motivate Noelle to unpack her damn bags, but as it turns out it helps. She actually even puts her old clothing away in the laundry basket. It won’t get done for a while, but at least it’s there.  The laundry basket sits by the door. Done intentionally, as a reminder for Noelle to take it to the laundromat when it got full. Historically it hasn’t really worked that well, and typically clothing is scattered between the laundry basket and Noelle’s dresser. Made of old, cheap wood, the fact her dresser still holds together is sort of a miracle. It’s shorter, longer than it is tall, and has three long drawers. She’d bought it at a thrift store when she’d first moved out. Technically, it was her first piece of furniture, and she’s stupidly attached to the thing. Now the top drawer doesn’t close properly, and the bottom drawer’s handle has fallen off so opening it involves some level of prying. Still, it’s hers. So, she supposes, is the rest of her furniture. Or most of it. The white couch in her living room was her grandmothers, and the quilt on her bed was a gift from her great-aunt. And some of her pots and pans were gifts from her sister-in-law. Though she rarely uses them, so that hardly even counts. They’re actually closer to decoration than proper cooking utensils at this point. Takeout is easier, anyway.

Packing, in reality, doesn’t take very long. The trip is only three days. Three of her nicer dresses, a pair of heeled boots to wear in the cold weather, pajamas, and skirt and blouse, and Noelle is set. Which leaves her with most of her afternoon free still. For an hour, she lounges on the couch and listens to the radio. There’s a rerun of Zevran Arriani’s new Western program, and that’s about as absurd as it sounds. Gun-slinging southern cowboys are silly enough when it’s written by Americans. Antivan-born Zevran makes it, somehow, all the more ridiculous and still completely enjoyable. The hero does flips, seduces ladies, and always defeats the corrupt and mustachioed sheriff. Noelle’s radio is tucked away in the corner of her living room, by the fire escape window that overlooks the community garden. The fire escape is snow and ice covered, but in the summers half he apartment complex spends their evenings popping in and out. Now it’s too cold, and all Noelle can see is snow falling in lazy circles.

Tucked away underneath the radio is a bucket of unused yarn. It’d be the perfect day to try it again.

Noelle puts on her coat and goes to the Red Jenny.

 

 

 

The only familiar faces in the Red Jenny are Sera and Cole. There’s only a glimpse of Cole’s messy mop of hair through the window into the kitchen, but Sera sits alone in a table booth. An elderly couple are at the table by the door, holding hands over a cup of coffee. Upbeat music plays softly from a speaker on the counter. Sera is doodling on a napkin at the table, but her head shoots up as the bell above the door jingles.

“Hey-o!” She waves Noelle over. No move is made to hide the elaborate phallic drawing she’s working on. “How’s it hanging?”

“Fine, thanks. How’re you Sera? Working hard?” She slides into the booth.

Sera snorts at this. Obviously, the answer is no but it still felt polite to ask. “You’re joking, yeah? Look around. Just me and the oldies here. Oh. And it, but he’s supposed to be cooking. Don’t you have some sort of job to be doing?”

“Mr. Rutherford gave me the afternoon off, actually. Got a job out in Crestwood tomorrow to cover that big fundraising banquet for the weekend.”

“That’s the place with the loony-bin, right?”

“Sanitorium, Sera. They treat, or, I supposed, used to treat tuberculous patients there.”

Sera frowns. All of Sera’s frowns are sort of a funny thing, one side of her lips crook down more then other and they sort of purse and her eyebrows furrow. What she’s frowning about is a whole other issue, since she just frowns and stares without ever explaining what’s confusing her. So Noelle is left to guess. The couple by the door drops some change on the table and leaves in the meanwhile. “Tuberculous?” Noelle finally guesses. “You do know what that is, right?”

Sera looks affronted. Apparently that wasn’t the problem. “I know what tubarcoolosis is.” It rolls off the tongue wrong, but Sera still gets her point across. “You’re seriously telling me you want to go to the place they keep the sick people?”

Noelle snorts. “I can’t imagine they’re going to let me in, Sera. The building itself is condemned, a tree fell on the damn thing. I’m basically spending my weekend at a party in the community center. Pretty sure it’s still safe there.”

“Wait wait, hold up,” Sera raises her hand, palm flat out. “You mean to tell me that shitting tree fell onto a building for sick people and they’re trying to get a three day long party to find the money to fix it? Isn’t that going to be real fucking expensive?”

“Who knows, Sera,” Noelle shrugs. Sometime tomorrow she’s planning on popping down to Chumley’s Rest and checking out the destruction herself. Not that she knows much about structural damage. Seeing it in person will be far more helpful than vague reports from newspapers. Small town news doesn’t often find it’s way into New York City, so this is something unusual.

Though it is a pity it took the destruction of a prized community building and multiple deaths for half the city to care. “At least they’re trying, I suppose.”

Sera shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Still, seems like a bit of a big goal.” Sera stops, snorting a small laugh. “Speaking of big goals, you hear who Dorian’s been hanging around with?”

How does Sera know? Good lord, you’d think she was a spy and not just a waitress. Sera waggles her eyebrows at Noelle.

“I have, in fact. I’ve met him before, too.”

Sera nods. “You too? He comes ‘round sometimes are weird times, middle of night mostly. Gets a coffee and a piece of cherry pie, each time. Tips well, though. Seems like a pretty swell guy.”

“Sera he’s a mob boss.”

This doesn’t phase Sera one bit. “So? He’s alright. Likes Dorian a fair bit, too, I’d wager..” She winks. Subtlety, thy name is not Sera. 

“How do you know any of this?” Noelle shakes her head. Noelle’s curiosity is definitely piqued, however.Bull and Dorian did seem close at the Herald’s Rest. Asking Dorian isn’t going to get her anywhere though. Not directly, at least. He’ll deflect, make a joke, or change the subject faster than Noelle can properly ask anything. She could get him drunk, that may help. Bull is, however, still a mob boss, and that’s a little troubling. Lately the stories in the papers have realy ramped up, all sorts of gruesome killings and deaths and injuries. Senseless violence for a drug that destroys everyone it comes in contact with.

“Everyone comes here. I keep saying that, no one ever seems to listen or care.” Sera huffs. “If you’d actually listen to me, you may learn something.” Her head cocks to the side, and she smiles.

Noelle laughs. “Good Lord, how many work secrets do you know?”

So Sera fills her in. The stories about Hawke’s exploits and the time he almost burned down the Hanged Man, or about a week where Dorian had to wear a scarf in the middle of summer to hide the hickies on his neck. That, Noelle remembers, but it’s nice to have extra confirmation. Before Noelle knows it, a dinner rush is filing in and Sera has to excuse herself to actually do her job. It’s a burden she bears with visible frustration. Noelle leaves before things get too busy.

 

 

 

The next morning, she and Cassandra arrive at the bus depot bright and early. It’s a newer building about a half hour cab ride from Noelle’s neighbourhood. Most of the lot is concrete, connecting to roads on other side. There’s a small white stone building at the end of the lot. Along the front of the buildings are wooden benches. They seat a handful of people who shiver in the cold. The depot office could have provided some warmth, but unfortunately the glass doors of the building are locked. So Noelle stands in the cold too, watching as her cab drives off. She should have asked for the cab to wait around for the bus. It would have been worth the extra fees. Dorian has agreed to drive her home Sunday night, but she still had to find her own transport to the bus depot. 7:30 is too early for Dorian, apparently. Cassandra looks ready to go, eyes bright and her hair wrapped in a braid over her head. Noelle’s still a little foggy-headed. The night had been a late one for her. She isn’t sure when she managed to fall asleep but it was definitely too late. The bus rumbles into the depot five minutes late. It huffs, and puffs. Likely it’s at least ten years old. Red paint covers the bottom half of the bus, curving over the wheels, while the rest is a faded white. Imperial Buslines is written in black paint along both sides.

“This should be a good time.” It’s an optimistic prediction, definitely. There is also a chance that things could go horribly, disastrously wrong. The town could be hit by a freak flood, or someone could get murdered, or the bus’s heat could stop working. “Just you, me, and Mr. Rutherford at a party for a whole weekend.”

“Oh, delightful,” Cassandra says, not sounding delighted at all.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**_Skyhold Quarterly_ **  
**_January 14th, 1947._ **

 

 

  _ **NEWS**_

 **_Crestwood in Recovery_ **  
_The little town of Crestwood was hardly on anyone’s radar until quite recently. The sleepy little town, located around an hour out of New York City, was founded in 1895, and has only appeared in an NYC paper twice since then. The first, when a train derailed at the town’s station in 1909, and now just last year. In early December, the state experienced one of the worst blizzards on written record. New York City itself experienced a stand still for a few days, but in comparison we fared quite well. In Crestwood, the Chumley’s Rest Sanatorium, founded by William Chumley in 1921, is one of the few sanatoriums in the surrounding area, and as such was home to nearly 100 patients and fifty staff. The blizzard caused several problems: firstly, a power outage that meant the six iron lungs in the faculty were without power. Sources report that off-duty nurses rushed to the scene to assist with powering the machines, which can also be manually operated with a crank. Secondly: the sanatorium is surrounded by a park, and unfortunately the wind from the blizzard knocked a tree over into the east wing of the building. Several were killed on impact, and three others are in critical condition at a neighboring hospital._  
_The damage done to the sanatorium, unfortunately, was substantial. Rough estimates say to repair the building it it’s original condition would cost at least $25,000. The rest of the city is recovering, the sanatorium patients have been moved to hospitals in other counties for the time being, and the grieving process has begun for the families of those who were lost._

 _In order to offset some of the substantial costs, the community of Crestwood has planned a fund-raising benefit. This would, in fact, be the third attempt at holding this benefit. The previous two attempts were canceled, and no source has been clear as to why. Now, however, it would appear things are on track. The benefit will take place sometime in late February at the Crestwood Community Center. The tragedy in Crestwood has attracted the attention of some big stars. Big New York names like Zither the Magician and Lady Leliana have expressed interest in performing at the event. Word has it that local celebrities, the Hawke Brothers, have expressed interest in putting on a show as well. If things truly get off the ground, it will likely be a night to remember._  
_\- Lace Harding_

  
“Did you ever hear why they canceled two benefits in a row?” Noelle asks. The small stack of newspaper clippings and letters she’s holding aren’t full of anything overly interesting, sad as it is to admit it. Just five months ago she’d had pages upon pages of political scandals and relationships, prepping for a trip to a ski resort. Now, she’s crowded on a bus with a woman who will barely speak to her.

Cassandra inhales audibly. “No.”

“Interesting.”

One would think that restoring the sanitarium would be a priority. Certainly there was family in Crestwood who wanted their sick relatives close by. Putting the benefit off once was probably excusable, but twice was strange. However, Cassandra’s not in the mood to brainstorm, or chat in particular, so Noelle is left to muse alone for the hour it takes to get to Crestwood. When the bus pulls into the Crestwood station, Noelle has come up with exactly one plausible idea: finances. Events like this are expensive, even with people volunteering their efforts. It’s entirely possible that a small town like Crestwood just couldn’t afford the costs, and had to postpone the whole thing. Still, since the mayor hasn’t said a word about it to any newspaper. The bus rumbles and groans the whole way there, and Noelle is bumped and jostled into Cassandra so many times that Cassandra actually gets up and moves to a seat nearer to the front. Noelle doesn’t recognize many of the other passengers. There’s one photographer from the Daily Tribune that’s alternating between slipping and taking long sips from a flask hidden in his coat pocket.

The bus rolls into Crestwood shortly after ten a.m. The bus stop is right in the center of town, across the street from an old grey-brick post office and right next to a closed grocery store. Unlike New York City, where the sidewalks and streets would still be bustling, only two cars pass Noelle and Cassandra as they make the way to their motel. Nothing they pass exceeds three stories. As Noelle walks,she tries to make notes about the town. Little things to add to her story. Snowman and snowforts dot the front yards of several homes, and Noelle figures she can add something about children playing outside, their cheeks rosy and laughs warm.

The only local they encounter on their walk to motel is the motel clerk himself, and unfortunately doesn’t appear to know much about the situation. Noelle asks the clerk at the motel, jokingly, if he’s sure there’s going to be a Benefit this time. The clerk just shrugs. “Sure hope so, or we’ll be up to our ears in complaints again”.

“What even happened the first time? Seems an odd thing to put off.”

Cassandra makes a sound, not entirely pleased, behind Noelle. Seemingly in no mood for idle conversation, Cassandra grabs the room key and heads off down the hall. The Washington Motel isn’t exactly a five star motel, or anything of the like. It’s a long rectangular building just off of the main road, white shingled and marked with a neon sign. The main entrance is in the center of the building, branching off left and right into long hallways that are decorated with erratically placed potted plants.

The clerk, teenaged and bored, shrugs again. “You’d have to take that up with town council, not me. My mom said something about the mayor not knowing what’s good for this town anymore. But,” the clerk continues, a slow horror dawning on his face, “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone she said that.”

Noelle stifles a laugh. “I’m sure I can keep that a secret. Thank you.”

When Noelle enters their room Cassandra is in the bathroom, adjusting the tie round her neck. Their room is on the far left end of the motel, tucked right near the emergency exit door. They’ve got two beds, separated by a nightstand, and Cassandra’s tossed her bags onto the one nearest the window. Noelle kicks off her shoes by the door. The carpet, soft and grey, looks almost clean, and the snow covering Noelle’s boots wouldn’t help the situation. Only one painting hangs on the light green walls, a generic landscape portrait of a river. Beneath it stands an sturdy old secretary desk, currently closed, with two plain wooden chairs placed on either side. The bathroom door is to the immediate left of door to the room, and though Cassandra cannot see Noelle, her voice carries throughout their room very clearly.

“I believe Cullen said something, very specifically, about not snooping,” Cassandra says archly.

“Did he?” Noelle drops her bags on the floor by the foot of her bed. Unceremoniously, she flops down onto the mattress. The mattress is surprisingly soft, giving way easily, but the bed frame groans under the sudden weight. “Curious.”

The only response Cassandra gives is a disapproving grunt.

“Besides,” Noelle adds, kicking off her shoes, “It’s not as if I’m about to write a daring expose on a damn fundraiser. I was just interested.”

“Mm.” Cassandra sounds almost hilariously unconvinced, as if Noelle had just tried to claim it was the middle of July or that Varric had sworn off gambling.

Noelle sighs. Not that she expected a hotel weekend with Cassandra to be a wild romp, but some semblance of conversation would be swell. The silence is thick, pronounced.

The small radio on the nightstand offers some small comfort, at least. The Colgate Comedy Hour is normally not Noelle’s taste, but the few other stations available are all weather and sports at the moment. Times like these, Noelle almost wishes she hadn’t given up knitting. It gave her something to do in the idle hours. Officially, the benefit won’t begin fully until tomorrow. That’s when all the big names arrive, after all. Tonight features a smaller fare, a community dinner with the high school’s band performing and a few local singers. Not exactly a groundbreaking news story. Still, it’s better than sitting round a hotel room with a sullen coworker.

That, however, doesn’t start until six. It’s just barely noon. Noelle needs a hobby.

Or a particularly time-consuming addiction.

Two hours pass in a sort of uncomfortable silence. Cassandra walks around like something in the room has personally offended her, and Noelle is beginning to suspect that it’s her. Noelle lies on the bed, fusses around, flips idly through the Bible on the shelf, fiddles with the radio stations, and then settles for staring out of the window. The motel window doesn’t offer a great view of anything, a small parking lot and the edge of a nearby skating rink, but it’s still something.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Cassandra finally asks.

“Not particularly.” Noelle shrugs.

Cassandra huffs.

“I am sorry,” Noelle says. Frankly, it’s a bit of a stab in the dark. An educated stab, perhaps, but still a stab. This does get Cassandra’s attention, at least. “About the Valentine’s Day thing. I should have asked you first. It was unprofessional, and I apologize.”

This time, Cassandra snorts. It’s maybe a bit less mean than her previous responses, but only by a very small margin. “Yes, of course, because that’s the only thing you’ve done that’s unprofessional lately.”

“Cass-“

“It is entirely up to you if you want to ruin your career, Noelle. Believe me when I say I vouched for you because I thought you’d do well, but right now I think you’re incredibly lucky and that you need to stop taking this for granted.” Cassandra is leveling Noelle with an intense glare. The kind that makes Noelle feel like her feet are rooted to the floor.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to get too.”

It’s not even a good lie.

Generally, any lie that only requires a quick look at the nearest clock to disprove is a bad one. Cassandra snatches her bag, and slams the door behind her.  
Noelle isn’t Cassandra’s secretary or anything, but they’d gone over the whole weekend’s schedule with Cullen days earlier. Lucius isn’t even supposed to arrive in Crestwood until tomorrow.

Cassandra’s sudden departure leaves Noelle alone with her thoughts, unwanted as they may be. Because of course Cassandra has a point. She always does. Noelle flops backwards, head thumping down onto the pillow. It’s not exactly the sort of thing she can easily fix, after all. Fessing up to the whole deal will absolutely land her in hotter water than she’d like and she’s convinced Cullen that she can handle real work again.

Cassandra is right, of course, Noelle should just cruise through the weekend, enjoy the shows, and write a nice little fluff piece about community bonding. That would be easy, of course. Responsible, even.

Except, there’s a niggling little voice in the back of Noelle’s head. It’s not quite a complete picture of this event, after all. Something, or someone, has been pushing it back. She’s seen the way communities rally together after tragedies. In London, after a bombing raid had destroyed a young families house, the whole community had gathered at a local church to collect donations for the family. The whole thing took a few days to organize. Though this definitely is a bigger crisis, it has been in the works for months.

Noelle knows a rat when she sees one.

She lasts all of five minutes before throwing on her coat and heading out the door. The motel hallway is close to silent, the distant sound of man coughing and a radio playing. Either everyone is out, or this motel is simply not very busy. There’s a few hotels within the town limits, including a quaint bed and breakfast that is along the river. This was the cheapest option.

The pictures on the walls all have a sort of distinctive “Crestwood” theme, old photos and sketches of the town leading the way to the lobby. There are a few old paintings, of boats alone the river from when the town was a smaller trading post. As Noelle draws near the lobby, a particularly picture catches her eye. A photo of Chumley’s Rest when it was first built in 1921. It looks different than the one picture than Noelle had seen. The Therin Library back home has a small brochure for the sanatorium in the lobby, tucked away with museum maps and local guidebooks. In the brochure photo it been a large white building, with wooden supports framing the windows. There appeared to be separate wings, the front of the building jutting up above the rest of it while smaller portions spread out to the left and the right.

Then, the building was smaller; evidently the side wings were later additions. In lieu of that, the garden space was notably larger. Trees surrounded the whole of the building, casting shadows over the large lawn. Standing in front of the newly constructed sanatorium is a man in a fine black suit and hat. The picture is grainy, at best, and the brim of the man’s hat hangs too low to clearly see his face. In all likelihood, it’s Wilford Chumley himself. A small plaque underneath details the history of the building that just reeks of community pride.

  
“ _Chumley’s Rest, founded in 1929 by Wilford Chumley, was initially a place for those still suffering from war neuroses. It was only in 1933 that it was adapted to house consumption patients, and that is what it has served as since. Despite structural problems, and costly renovations, Chumley’s Rest continues to serve it’s community._  
_Dedicated by James W. Chumley, 1941._ ”

 

 

 

The low murmur of conversation carries through the hallways, and Noelle turns for the lobby. There's two male voices, one the clerk from the earlier, the second sounding much deeper.

“The room is just down to the left.” The clerk is saying, sounding just as bored as before.

“Thanks,” the second voice says.  There's a slight mid-Western accent in his voice. “We’ll just be dropping our bags off. Can you give us directions to the mayor’s office, please?”

“Oh, uh…I think there’s some maps over there. His office is in the community center. It’s just past Harvey’s – I mean, the Grocery Store, just hook a left after that dented stop sign.”

“Thanks very much.” 

Two men, both well-dressed in charcoal grey suits, pass Noelle into the hallway and drag two large bags behind them. Noelle only gives them a passing glance as she makes her way back outside. She doesn’t actually have much of a game plan once she sets foot outside, and instead just ambles about. After several blocks of walking the “meandering” approach is doing increasingly less to distract her from feelings of guilt and anxiety, so Noelle decides to find the sanatorium. An elderly lady shoveling snow off the sidewalk kindly points her in the right direction, and off she goes.

The sanatorium sits across town, on a lot near the river. It’s a sad sight compared to the picture in the Washington Motel. The oak double-doors have been boarded off, and the front steps are covered in so much snow the front deck is all but invisible. Two wings extended, to the left and right of the main hall. While the right hall remains intact, the left is in shambles. A long, sturdy, tree lies right through the building, and the left wing has caved around it. Sections of the second floor are visible from the street, and portions of the roof dangle precariously overhead. Though also partially obscured by the snow, the sign reading “Warning: Unsafe! Do Not Enter” is not surprising. And, for once, Noelle decides to stay put. She isn’t eager to risk getting trapped anywhere again, and the left wing of the building looks viable to fall apart any moment.

So, instead, she stares at the building and makes mental notes. Suddenly she’s struck with the grave thought that people died in that building just a few months ago. That grief must still be fresh in the communities memory. Noelle feels a twinge of sympathy. After another few minutes, Noelle takes a deep breath and makes her way back to the motel.

The room is empty when she gets back, and Noelle settles on the desk to start jotting things down. Mostly first impressions and a description of the sanatorium.  
In the end, Noelle and Cassandra don’t run into each other dinner. Even then, it’s only a vague acknowledgment as they pass each other in the buffet line. They’re seated at separate tables, since Cassandra has been formally invited as Lucius’s date and Noelle is relegated to the slightly less glamourous press table. Noelle is sitting with two other reporters, one man and one woman, both of whom are scribbling into notepads. The lady looks local. she doesn’t have a press badge, and people keep patting her on the shoulder and asking how her kids are doing. The man is definitely from out of town, he’s fidgeting and appears to be taking everything in like it’s the first time. Noelle probably doesn’t look much different.

The Crestwood Community Center bears a lot of similarities to Herald’s Rest back home. It’s the old scuffed wood floors and wood paneled walls. Banners are hanging from the walls here, festive colours and bright balloons almost completely cover the trim on the ceiling. A small, makeshift, stage has been constructed and pushed against the northern wall. Green tape marks off a square dance floor at the foot of the stage. It looks as if, in terms of seating, they’d tried to provide matching round tables and chairs for everyone and ran out about ¾ of the way through. Despite the white cloth covers on the chairs, some are visibly a slightly different shape the others. Right now, an elderly lady is playing comfortable jazz on a small piano that’s on the back of the stage.

Noelle leans back in her chair. This may the perfect night to be here, actually. Not that Noelle’s ever enjoyed fluff pieces, but since that’s what she’s doing, tonight will be best.

This is the heart of it all, the community banding together. Tonight is, essentially, a party just for the town. Tomorrow is when the big celebrities turn up, and when the big crowds finally show. Technically guests are welcome to come tonight, but the names on the program are all local. Sure, tomorrow’ll be still be exciting, but everyone wants to read about small communities rallying together. So tonight Noelle focuses on the little things – the way everyone interacts, the little jokes, the stories about the nurses and the patients.

The lady next to her – Gladys, according to her nametag – hums and hahs along with the speeches. Noelle doesn’t transcribe most of it, but writes down a few select quotes to use later. The introductions are few and far between, given that just about everyone here seems to know each other. After a third unidentified person comes and goes, Noelle leans over to Gladys.

“I’m sorry, I’m not from around here. Who’s speaking?”

“Oh!” Gladys smiles. “That young man up there is Tomas Kieran, he runs the local construction company. They did so much work for the sanitorium, and often for a discount.” Gladys’s tone lowers conspiratorially, “You know, the poor dear’s brother was one of the patients there. Heartbreaking stuff, the poor family has lost so much. Their father in the war, now Gregor, and their poor mother has always been so sickly.”

“Mm.” For better or for worse, Noelle suddenly becomes privy to all the towns drama.

“And that nervous man sitting over there,” Noelle asks, nodding towards a smaller man sitting off left of the stage. “Who is he?”

“That’s the mayor.”

The mayor looks, for lack of a better word, off. Pale, fidgeting, and sweaty. Here is a man that is profoundly uncomfortable with the proceedings around him. Tomas thanks the mayor for his support of the sanitorium, and the mayor’s smile is decidedly terse.

“Does he always look so uncomfortable?”

Gladys hums. “He didn’t use too. The past few months have taken their toll on him.”

“Did he have family in the sanatorium?”

“Oh, no. I think he was one of the few families not too. Only child, you see. He’s always been on the nervous side. I used to watch him when he was a boy while his mother worked at the beauty parlor, and he used to have such frights during storms. He wasn’t allowed to listen to certain radio stations because they’d scare him so. It’s been worse lately, though. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Chumley’s?”

Noelle shrugs. “That’s the family that owns the Sanitorium, is it not?”

Gladys looks visible delighted. “You’ve done some research!”

Noelle doesn’t have the heart to tell her that the information came from plaque in a hotel hallway. So, instead, she shrugs half-heartedly in the hopes she looks sort of humbled and abashed. Gladys doesn’t appear to notice regardless.

“Unfortunately, their son died a few years ago. He left his Sanatorium to the town, he thought we were the only ones who could care for it properly. The mayor’s been awfully stiff-lipped about the whole thing, but the buildings had quite a bit of problems. The whole thing has been a bit of an ordeal, I’m afraid.”

“That’s terrible,” Noelle says kindly. “I can see why that would take it’s toll on a man.”

Gladys leans in a bit further. “If you want to speak to him, I suggest you don’t bring up council meetings.”

 

 

 

It takes until the very end of the night before Noelle can speak to the mayor. Immediately, it’s apparent Gladys wasn’t exaggerating the mayor’s nevous disposition. He actually recoils as Noelle taps his shoulder, as if he’d been struck.

“Can I help you?” He’s giving her a look, head cocked and brow furrowedm like he’s trying to figure out if he should know her. Volunteers have begun moving things around, stacking chairs and clearing table cloths, and the place is a abuzz with a friendly clamour.

“I’m sure you can.” Noelle extends her hand. “Noelle Trevelyan, Skyhold Quarterly. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment?”

Something flickers across the mayor’s face, briefly. It’s gone before Noelle can recognize it. “I thought the press wasn’t coming until tomorrow.”

Noelle shrugs. “The majority aren’t, I expect. I thought I’d come early and see a bit more of the community before it’s swamped with guests and reporters. Is that a problem?”

“Oh, no,” the mayor says hurriedly. “Not a problem at all. Just…unexpected. What can I do for you?” He adjusts his tie, and leaves it hanging more crookedly than before.

“Just some questions, I promise. It’ll only take a moment.”

The Mayor bites his lip. “Of course.”

There’s a pregnant pause until Noelle realizes this is her invitation to speak. “Ah. It’s taken some time to get this going, how are you feeling now that the plan has finally taken flight, so to speak?”

“Relieved, of course. It’s been…such a blessing, to have so many people in our little town. We appreciate the support.” The mayor speaks as if he’s struggling for words. Stopping, then starting, and then glancing nervously around the room as if looking for someone.

“I’m sure.” Noelle smiles. “If I may ask, what was the problem the past two times you tried to have this?”

The Mayor shrugs. “The usual, I expect. Financial costs, planning difficulties, and giving the community time to grieve.”

“Wasn’t holding a benefit the community’s idea?”

“I. Yes, of course it was.” The Mayor coughs. “So soon after the funerals, though? It seemed in poor taste. If you’ll excuse me, though, I need to go and help with the clean up.”

“Of course.” Noelle watches the mayor wander off with a frown.

 

 

 

 

Noelle arrives early on Saturday, ambling over the community center around noon, to try and get some interviews the the locals who are setting up. A janitor is sweeping the floor of the hall, and a few ladies are puttering around with tableware.

“Uh, excuse me, I’m Noelle Trevelyan, with Skyhold Quarterly. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

The janitor stops, tucks his broom underneath his armpit. “Sure thing. I’m Jason Westlake, but you may as well just call me Jay. What can I do you for?”

Noelle laughs, politely. “Nothing big, I promise. I’m just curious, how long have you preparing for this event?”

“Well,” Jay shrugs. “Months, I suppose. This time was actually real easy. My wife’s secretary for the lady’s club, they’ve had all this stuff ready to go at the drop of a hat for a while now.” He snorts a small laugh. “Hell, if you’re curious, you’re more than welcome to go talk to her. She’ll have more exciting stories than I do; I’m just here to move the tables.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of exciting stories.”

“Oh, you bet I do, I just can’t imagine they’re particularly relevant to this particular situation. Sharon’s just through that door there, she outta be using one of the spare desks in the office.”

A hall, concealed currently by a red curtain, is tucked away by the stage. It branches off, one going left and leading towards the washrooms, while directly in front of the doorway is a flight of stairs broken up by a small landing where the stairs turn right. Noelle makes the leap that the office is perhaps, not towards the bathroom, and climbs the stairs.

The stairs led into a reception area, a set of plastic chairs lining a wall by a window that overlooks the parking lot and two small desks that are covered in paperwork. A lone middle-aged woman sits behind one of the desks, and is scanning over a sheet of paper on the desk.

“Uh, Mrs. Westlake?”

She looks up, startled. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“Your husband said I could find you up here. I’m Noelle Trevelyan, from Skyhold Quarterly. Do you have some time to answer a few questions?”

“Er. Yes, I believe I do.” She gestures at the expanse of empty chairs between them and grins wryly. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

Noelle pulls out her notepad and settles in.

“How are you today?” Noelle asks, before jokingly adding, “Off the record.”

Mrs. Westlake chuckles. “Just fine. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. So, from what your husband tells me, you’ve spent a great deal of time preparing for this. How are you feeling about the reception it’s been getting?”

“Honestly, overwhelmed. The outpouring of support has been so incredible.” Though the smile is earnest, it sounds like the sort of thing she’s been saying for some time now. Which, of course, is to be expected. There’s all sorts of meaningless platitudes that you have to say, lest you be branded ungrateful or rude. And Mrs. Westlake is quite the gracious interviewee. She answers all of Noelle’s questions with a lazy ease, and dances around the subject of the canceled events as if she’s done it dozens of times. Which, of course, she quite likely has.

“And what of the future of the sanatorium? I’ve heard that the building was in need of repairs before it was destroyed?”

Mrs. Westlake flinches. “Yes, it was. For a time, we’ll likely only be able to use the West Wing, so our funds will be directed towards refurbishing it. The Women’s Institute will be campaigning to increase funding for the restoration of the rest of the sanatorium. It’s been part of this town’s history for over twenty years, and the Chumley family has done a great deal for us, and it would be a pity to let it go to someone not from this community.”

“Has someone offered to buy the sanatorium?”

The pause that follows Noelle’s question is not long, and barely significant, but Mrs. Westlake has a brief, glorious moment of panic and Noelle knows she’s hit gold. Noelle smiles, as demurely and non-threateningly as possible.

“No,” Mrs. Westlake says, quickly. A lie. Or at least a stretch of the truth. “But many other sanatoriums are being privatized and we’d like this one to stay firmly in the hands of the community.”

Noelle nods, placating. “Naturally.”

 

 

 

When Noelle returns to the hotel room, Cassandra has covered both of the beds in files and photographs. Lucius must have swung by the hotel room while Noelle was away. Cassandra herself is sitting on her bed, flipping through one with a studious scowl on her face. Cassandra’s expression is often some degree of scowl. Happy-scowl, angry-scowl, disappointed-scowl, Varric-just-hinted-about-his-book-scowl. She looks up, briefly, as Noelle enters before looking back at her papers.

“How was the community center?” Cassandra asks, idly. Or, like she’s trying to ask idly. Likely this is digging to find out if Noelle had been snooping.

“Good,” Noelle responds, and raises her voice a mocking octave , “They’re just so overwhelmed by the support they’re receiving and it means ever so much to them.” She drops the pretense as she drops her notepad. “Dreadfully boring stuff, really.”

“And you don’t suspect they’re hiding things?”

Noelle snorts. “Cassandra, of course they’re hiding things.”

Cassandra is efficient when it comes to getting ready. Leaving the house barely takes ten minutes for her. So she’s been ready to go to the community center since probably 9 this morning. The first show isn’t slated until about 4, so it should be starting by 4:30. Getting ready is a bit harder for Noelle. It’s not as easy as tossing on a pair of trousers and a nicely trimmed jacket. Thanks to some lingering affects of being raised partly by a high society grandmother, it’s a matter of choosing the right dress, the right petticoat, and the right shoes and looking like a ‘lady’. Noelle spends the next hour curling and pinning back her hair, so her bangs are swept back in a roll while the rest are pinned loosely in the back. Noelle hums to herself softly while she does her makeup, little refrains she remembers from the radio. There’s no radio on outside, of course, Cassandra hates working with background noise. Still, Noelle sways along with the imaginary beat. With a liberal amount of powder, the freckles that cover her cheekbones are hidden and her lips are painted a soft pink shade.

Noelle is buttoning up the top of her dress when she hears a knock at the hotel room door. She tills, for a second, before shuffling closer to the the door. The bathroom is particularly large, so reaching the door from the counter is only a matter of two or three steps. At first, the murmur of greetings are too low for Noelle to pick up, but after a moment she picks up the timber of Cullen’s voice. It shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is, she knew he was coming on Saturday. And yet, her heartbeat picks up a beat or two.

“Is Ms. Trevelyan in?” Cullen is asking.

“Just getting ready, I believe,” Cassandra replies. “Thanks for coming, Cullen.”

Noelle hears something like a breathy laugh before Cullen responds. “Please, don’t worry about it. It’ll be a relief to stay somewhere with proper heating.”

“Has your landlord not fixed that yet?” Cassandra’s tone is reprimanding, concerned. And rightly so. It’s not quite the dead of winter anymore, but that doesn’t mean it’s not cold outside. Noelle’s apartment building has proper heating, and there are still nights she needs to sleep on the couch near the radiator just to keep properly warm.

“Not for lack of trying,” Cullen says, “Something about old buildings and poor insulation.”

Cassandra groans. “Christ’s sake, Cullen. That’s hardly livable, surely you can do something.”

“Well, I’ve lived in worse,” Cullen says.

“In Germany,” Cassandra says, pointedly. “This is America. This isn’t a war anymore, Cullen. Heat is not a luxury.”

“Yes. Well.” Cullen coughs. “That’s a long enough lecture on my wellbeing for one day, I think. What did you want me to look at, exactly?”

The conversation dulls out after that, work stuff and shuffling papers. Noelle becomes acutely aware that she’s been standing, half dressed, in a bathroom for far longer than needed. She buttons the rest of the dress, so the collar is tight against her collarbone. The dress is a lovely, shimmery teal that seems to sparkle in the bathroom’s florescent light.

She starts for the door, but stops halfway there (about one step, it isn’t a big bathroom), and turns back to the mirror. She looks fine. Perfectly acceptable for a reporter about to go out. Noelle frowns.She adjusts the sleeves of her dress so they just about reach her elbow, and she fusses with her hair for another several minutes.

She looks nice. Right?

Shit. Is her lipstick smudged?

By the time she’s done, hair is starting to fall out and curl out around the nape of her neck and she’s reapplied her lipstick twice. Of course, by then it is also too late to redo it all, so she simply sighs and forces herself out the door. She tries to walk out casually, as if the past five minutes hadn’t happened.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Rutherford,” she says, politely.

“Hello, Ms. Trevelyan.” Cullen nods politely.

She knows she left her gloves somewhere in the room - tiny, cream coloured gloves that buttoned at the wrist and are frankly darling - but she is somehow, bafflingly, acutely nervous about the way she’s moving about the room. With something as small as gloves it doesn’t work to delicately search the room. Noelle has always found looking for a gloves a bit like looking for keys or that one matching stocking that you swore was in the same drawer as your other one but instead it’s not there. A sort of throwing things everywhere, crawling under the bed sort of search. Which is currently not possible.

It’s like her grandma is in the room with her. Scolding her posture, huffing about the ‘state’ of the room and generally being imposing. Instead, she just has Cullen. Who, for what it’s worth, is being intimidating in a whole other sense. He had trailed off, mid-sentence, when Noelle had left the bathroom, which she presumed was out of surprise. But then his cheeks did this funny little flush that started at his nose and spread out across his cheeks.

And now.

Well, now Noelle is acutely aware of the way Cullen keeps looking at her out of the corner of his eye when he thinks she is turned around. And the way he keeps turning sharply back to Cassandra each time she looks back at him.

Cullen and Cassandra are both sitting by the secretary desk, each with their own piles of papers. Cassandra is marking his with a red pen, which Cullen should also theoretically be doing but the pen is hanging loosely between his fingers.

“So,” Cassandra is saying. “Lucius couldn’t say much, but he mentioned that the Seekers did a lot of work in the early 40’s. Do you have the accounts from June ‘41?”

“Uh,” Cullen starts, and begins thumbing through papers.

Noelle has, at this point, exhausted all surface level glove options. She sighs. She can’t exactly start rummaging through her suitcase in front of Cullen. She could go without, but it would hardly be fitting. She huffs, resigned to her fate, and drops to her knees. The undersides of beds are always frightening things. Once, she’d gone searching for a loafer she’d kicked under the bed the night before and found herself face to face with her neighbours angry tabby cat, Marie. There were no angry tabby cats under this bed, mercifully.

Cullen clears his throat. “Ms. Trevelyan, do you-?”

“Noelle, what are you doing?” Cassandra asks.

Noelle grunts in response. There’s not much of anything, in fact. Except for two identical cream gloves, tucked halfway under the bed.. Noelle makes a victorious “a-ha!” sound, emerging from the bed waving her gloves around like a flag. She’d mention that in her account of the weekend. “Hotel had remarkably clean floors, very easy to find things dropped under beds.”

“Looking for these,” Noelle says. Cassandra rolls her eyes in response.

The empty space in her left glove always feels more noticeable than it is. Like inside of a few centimeters of missing space it’s a gaping chasm that everyone notices immediately. She tugs her glove on sharply. “So,” she says, “Will I be seeing either of you tonight?”

“I will be coming later,” Cassandra says. “Just for an hour or two.”

When Cullen doesn’t respond, Noelle starts heading for the door.Right as she’s opening the door, Cullen starts talking. “Oh, Ms. Trevelyan?”

Noelle turns around.

“Stay out of trouble.” 

Noelle nods. “I’ll do my best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a real fun fact for you guys: There was a complete power outage in Winnipeg in the 1950's, and the cities Iron Lungs all shut down, so dozens of off-duty nurses rushed to the hospital and took turns operating the hand cranks to keep the patients alive until the power was turned back on.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Skyhold Quarterly** _  
_**June 8th, 1945** _

 

 

 _**LOCAL FIRE DESTROYS BAKERY** _  
_A fire broke at Sten’s Bakery on Tuesday night. The cause of the fire is unknown, but police were on the scene not long after. An informant from the police force has said that arson is suspected but there’s no concrete evidence at the moment. No one was harmed in the fire. The building was empty with the exception of the owner’s cat, which was rescued from the building by a reporter on the scene._

 _**FOUR FOUND DEAD IN MANHATTAN OF LYRIUM OVERDOSE** _  
_The lyrium epidemic grows worse by the day. Sources from the Manhattan police department confirm that the four dead bodies found by socialite Anora Therin died of a lyrium overdose. A week ago Therin found four bodies in the alley next to her high-rise Manhattan apartment - the bodies are still unidentified but police believe that two of the bodies may belong to that of Samson Brody and Denam James - two soldiers reported missing over a month ago. An autopsy performed yesterday revealed that all four of the men died after consuming twice the lethal amount of lyrium._  
_Therin has announced her intentions to begin financially supporting rehabilitation programs for returning soldiers._

 

 

 

Noelle’s best, as it turns out, is not very good.

It’s abysmal, in fact.

If she’s guessing, she makes it about twenty minutes before she starts asking around about the sanitorium. The locals answer happily, telling stories about the nurses and the patients. The guests are all to willing to share their gossip. One man, a thirty-something from a few towns away, is leaning against the bar when Noelle wanders over.

“Funny thing,” the man says, looking out at the room. “My brother’s a contractor, said some big ‘ol New York company was talkin’ about hiring him to come do repairs out on this sanatorium. He hadn’t had the chance to come on down yet.”

Noelle frowns. “I thought the sanatorium was owned by the town.”

The man shrugs. “Who knows. I’m at this thing because of a pretty lady, and my brother likes to drink.” The man waggles his eyebrows. “Say, think I can snag a dance later?”

Noelle frowns. “You just said you were here for a lady.”

“And,” the man speaks slowly, like he wants to be extra sure Noelle understands the point he’s making, “this lady gets jealous like you wouldn’t believe. Dance with another pretty girl and I’ll probably wind up taking her for a spin by the end of the night.”

Like she’s a car.

Noelle shrugs, offhandedly. “We’ll see.”

She wanders off to find someone else to talk too. The room is fuller now, the same amount of wall and floor but more of everything else. More food, more tables, more decorations, and lots more people. Noelle can recognize a few singers, lounging at a table near the front and laughing at some joke. They have attracted a small following of groupies, none of which appear brave enough to actually approach their table. The giggle, and gawk, but when one of the Andrews Sisters turns and smiles at them, suddenly they are totally disinterested. Noelle is still at the press table, but this time Gladys has left her side to flit about the room like a social butterfly. The other reporters, about six of them total (it’s hard to tell, they come and go so often they’re never all at the table at the same time), spent their time moving around the room and writing things down in their notepads.

“Good weekend off,” one says to Noelle with a crooked smile. He’s wearing an old, unironed, pinstripe suit.

Noelle nods in agreement. This is, in all honesty, not a bad gig. Go out for the weekend, get a hotel, see some musicians, write an easy piece, go back home. Easy-peasy. It actually could be, if Noelle wasn’t so convinced something was going on. The mayor is here tonight at as well, seated at one of the tables near the stage with some of the town councilors. He keeps looking back at the door as if expecting someone.

There’s no band on the stage yet, just a local lady who looks like she could be named Edith playing something upbeat on the piano. Only one girl is dancing right now, a toddler who is spinning so rapidly she’s a blur of pink and brown. Noelle joins the flock of reporters, taking notes on the decor and the crowd and the mood. Her attention is diverted when two well-dressed men walk into the room. They are not, in and of itself, a peculiar thing. There are many well-dressed men in the room. However, they immediately move towards the mayor, and the mayor looks panicked at the sight of them. Though Noelle isn’t sure, they definitely resemble the pair who had arrived at the Washington Motel yesterday. Noelle watches intently from across the room. Admittedly, she’s awful at lip-reading, so all she can observe is the usual hand-shaking and pleasantries before the mayor gestures towards the door to his office. Noelle waits all of three minutes before rising and trailing after them. As she darts her way through the crowd, she accidentally slams into a petite blonde woman.

“Oh!” The woman says, startled.

“Sorry,” Noelle says absently, pushing her way past.

As she climbs the stairs to the mayor’s office, the low sound of conversation becomes audible. The door to the town office is ajar, open enough to let sound through, but still closed enough to allow Noelle to stand at the landing and listen in.

“The building will need extensive repairs.”

The mayor says something inaudible, but resigned. Noelle leans further back into the wall, as if it will enable her to hear more. Downstairs, a kindly sounding man is speaking through the microphone, introducing the first act. There’s a polite round of applause, before the first band starts their set. Shit. Straining her ears only lets her hear fragments.

“-understand your hesitation-”

“—council approval—”

There’s the sound of horns, testing and scratchy. The crowd quiets, but only briefly.

“Of course, of course -”

“-just sign here- —by next Friday, if possible?”

“Is there a line-up?” This voice is female, heavily accented. And coming from the bottom of the stairs. Noelle starts.

“My apologies, I did not mean to scare you.” A thin blonde woman is smiling up at her.It takes a moment but Noelle can tell it’s the woman she had just bumped into. Her accent sounds Orleasian, a similar cadence to Leliana’s lilting voice. “I was just wondering if you were waiting for anything in particular up there?”

“-not trying to separate the town and the sanatorium-”

“Uh, no,” Noelle says, edging towards the stairs and keeping her voice low. “Just. Uh. Just taking a quick breather before the party gets going.”

The woman nods. “Ah, of course.” She waves her arms in a circle, gesturing towards herself. “Now, please come down. You Americans shake hands, yes?”

“Oh, yes, we do.” Noelle tries to shove down any disappointment she may feel, and smiles at the Orlesian woman. As she descends the staircase, she extends her hand. “Noelle Trevelyan, pleased to meet you.”

“Floriene Du Gaspard,” she says, pleasantly. She tugs Noelle down one more step, so she can rise up on tipped toes to press her lips against lightly against Noelle’s cheeks. “In Orlais, we kiss.”

The forwardness makes Noelle blush. “Crestwood is an awful long way from Orlais, if you don’t mind me saying.”

The name Gaspard rings several bells, and Noelle tries to place it. The military leader in Orlais is also a Gaspard, the family was actually the one in line for the throne. But then, the chances of someone royal being in Crestwood seem unlikely. Gaspard could just be common last name.

“Oh, not at all,” she laughs, but it’s all politeness. Probably a comment she’s recent at least a dozen times already tonight. “I had business in New York anyway.”

Noelle smiles. “Seems like a lot of Orleasians do these days. How is the city treating you?”

“Quite well, there is much to do in this city.”

Noelle is about to rattle off a list of recommendations for the city’s hot spots when Florienne interrupts her.

“Oh!” Florienne looks over Noelle’s shoulder and smiles. “Mayor Dedrich!”

Noelle turns sharply. The mayor is looking at the pair of them, brow furrowed. The businessmen flank him, and neither look overly perturbed.

“Duchess Florienne,” the mayor says, voice wobbling, “A pleasure to see you. How long have you been standing back here?”

Noelle just manages to stop herself from gaping.

“Not long at all,” Florienne says with another smile. Her smiles are disarming, both sharp and dazzling. “I was just keeping Ms. Trevelyan company, standing around on the steps looked terribly lonely.”

Noelle forces a laugh. It’s, admittedly, weak. The mayor looks pale, and worried, which is exactly how he looked yesterday. He’s looking at Noelle like he’s trying to solve some sort of puzzle. Presumably, whether or not Noelle overheard anything incriminating. Which, of course, she did, but that’s not exactly something you’re going to admit too.

Instead, she shrugs. “I was grabbing a brief moment away. Crowds can just be exhausting, don’t you think?”

The mayor’s laugh is as weak as Noelle’s. “Certainly. It sounds as if the first band is starting, however, so we should get back.”

The first band to play is the an all-women’s band out from Chicago, Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators. They wear matching black dresses and sheer tights. Sweet Sue herself looks like a matriarch, standing tall in front of the girls. On the rare occasion a girl misses a note, or a beat, Sue shoots them a sharp look. Her fortitude doesn’t scare all the girls, however. Three of them, two sturdy with handsome faces, and a curvy blonde on the ukulele keep passing a flask back and forth each time Sue has her back turned. For a short while, Noelle manages to forget all about the mysterious strangers and the overheard conversation. She takes some notes, mostly on the band, but it keeps slipping back into what the mayor could be doing.

Well. Okay. She isn’t so much forgetting, then, but willfully shove it to he back of her mind. She manages to stay distracted through two musical numbers, and even winds up dancing with a few of the other guests. Some of the other journalists take part as well, the man she’d spoken to early spends a lot of time by the bar, chatting with the volunteer bartender. Then, though, when she’s halfway through a spin with a man named Teagan, she notices the Mayor standing by the door and shaking hands with the two men. He heads outside, and Noelle is struck with the thought that if she was going to do some snooping, now would be the perfect time for it.

“Ms. Trevelyan?” Cullen’s hand is on Noelle’s shoulder, tugging her out of the way. His brow is creasing, concerned. “Is everything alright? You look frantic.”

He’s probably suspicious.

She could tell him something’s up. That the mayor is up to something suspicious. It would be the right thing to do, confiding in your boss. Except she’d like to take a peek in the Mayor’s office before he gets back, and she can’t do that if Cullen is lecturing her.

“I’m fine,” she says, instead. “I just meet the Duchess Florienne du Gaspard, though.” She waggles both of her eyebrows. Now, after having the opportunity to watch the Duchess, it’s a wonder Noelle didn’t notice. She carries herself like royalty. Back straight, head held high, a sort of regal aloofness radiating off of her in waves. Now she appears to have attracted a similarly size crowd to that of musicians. They’ll likely forget all about her when Dean Martin takes the stage, but who wouldn’t.

Cullen frowns, fractionally. “The Empress’s cousin?”

Noelle nods. “I actually didn’t realize it at first. I don’t think I made too much of an ass of myself, at least.”

“Good,” Cullen says, “She might not be a bad reference, provided you can get on her good side.”

Noelle catches the Duchess’s eye from across the room, and offers up a small wave. The Duchess responds with a more regal wave, as if she’s showing Noelle’s wimpy working class wave up.

“I’ll work on it,” she says, slowly. “But, I was..I was on my way to the restroom, so if you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh! Of course.”

She doesn’t have a good excuse for being in the mayor’s office. She really should have thought of one first. Because there isn’t a way to make this look good, a lone journalist rifling through someone’s papers. Lucky for her, most everyone seems to be distracted with the show downstairs. Even luckier, no one has locked their door. The small town mentality comes in handy sometimes. But, of course, Mayor Dedrich is disorganized. Based on his composure he was either going to be rigidly, anally organized, or this. There is no organizational system in this office. There’s letters to the school, a page full of nothing but doodles, a small square sheet of paper with just a small address on it just on the top of the desk. Noelle tries, and hopefully succeeds, at not disrupting the space too much. It doesn’t look as if he’d notice if anything was moved, at least. There is a grey filing cabinet along the wall, with the bottom drawer ajar. Once Noelle has dug through the entirety of the Mayor’s desk, she turns to that. It’s, surprise surprise, poorly organized, papers layered upon papers. The first is an envelope marked “Town Finances August 1946- November 1946”. Noelle almost doesn’t open it, and she actually sets it aside, but something draws her back to it. Noelle sits back in the chair as she opens the envelope.

Objectively, she already knew that the cost of maintaining a full sanatorium would be expensive, but it is something else to see the costs on paper. Noelle flips through the finances with a frown. There was no way for Crestwood to keep itself out of ten feet of debt if it kept maintaining the sanatorium. Each month added new costs and renovations to the maintenance of the faculty. Tucked away at the very of the financials is a typewritten letter from a medical company in New York.

An offer.

To buy out the Sanatorium, and rebuild it to modern standards. Which, to Noelle, seems like a great deal, but evidently the town council did not agree. A follow up letter, addressed to the mayor again, promised to send representatives to assess the property and hopefully convince them otherwise. Finally, Noelle digs up a form for a property transfer from the town of Crestwood to the Andrastre Medical Company. It’s unsigned, but presumably the form the mayor was speaking to those men about.

Beneath her, the party rages on. Noelle tightens her grip on the pages. Noelle should put it back. Stealing definitely is not “staying out of trouble”. But then, isn’t that what the mayor is doing by allowing the town to donate funds to a sanatorium that may not be theirs anymore?

  
Noelle carefully folds up the letters and tucks them into her handbag, then hurries out the door. Frankly, it’s a miracle in itself that Noelle didn’t get caught in the office. Which is why it shouldn’t a surprise that when Noelle is hurrying back down the stairs she just about slams into Florienne. Her handbag clatters to the ground, it’s contents scattering over the floor. Fuck. Of course she didn’t zip it up.

“I’m sorry!” Noelle says, hurriedly, while trying to pick everything up at once. It’s not like Noelle carries a lot, but suddenly it feels as if everything she owns is all over the floor.

“No, no,” Florienne says good-naturedly. “It was an accident, it’s fine.” Before Noelle can stop her, Florienne has grabbed one of the letters. It’s fallen open, the contents easily visible. There’s no way Florienne would miss that the letters aren’t addressed to Noelle. Noelle panics, snatching it away from the Duchess.

“I’m sorry,” Noelle repeats, this time sheepishly. “They were…private, letters.”

“Of course,” Florienne says agreeably. Noelle suspects that Florienne doesn’t entirely believe her. Regardless, Florienne helps Noelle gather up her lipstick and cash and tells her to enjoy the rest of the show.

Noelle goes back to pretending to be a regular reporter for a while. Her handbag feels ten times heavier, though, and she is constantly checking to ensure that it is zipped properly. Cassandra appears to notice, based on the wary looks she looks shooting across the room, but she says nothing. Cullen doesn’t appear to be aware of it all. He doesn’t appear to have much of a chance. Everywhere he goes, he has a small retinue of girls trailing after him.

“He looks so uncomfortable,” Noelle remarks to Cassandra, “I almost wish I had a camera.”

Cassandra snorts. “I’m not so sure he’d appreciate that.”

He doesn’t look like he appreciates any of this, frankly. He keeps staring, distantly, out at the rest of the room like he is regretting all of his life choices. Noelle takes pity on him after half an hour, because he’s starting to look less uncomfortable and more resigned. As if he’s wearily accepted that he will now forever be cursed with a retinue of girls fawning over him. Right now, two are talking to him, and he keeps looking between them before closing his eyes wearily. The girls don’t seem to notice the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. Noelle doesn’t miss the look of hope in his expression when he notices her walking up.

“Mr. Rutherford, would you like to go-”

“Yes.” He responds, instantly. “Uh, if you’ll excuse us.” He says to the girls, before linking his arm through Noelle’s and leading her towards the door.

Noelle was going to ask him to dance. Cullen seems determined to get to the door, however, so Noelle lets him guide them outside. His grip on her arm is loose, elbows linked and his hand pulled close to his chest. Once they’ve stepped out into the winter air, Noelle has to stop herself from leaning into him to keep warm.

“Thank you,” Cullen says, leaning back against the outside wall and closing his eyes. Like always, it’s cold outside, and Noelle feels goosebumps prickling her arms almost instantly. Cullen doesn’t appear bothered. He leaves the sleeves of jacket rolled up to his elbows.

“You have admirers,” Noelle remarks, wryly. She leans next to Cullen on the wall.

“I know." It's pretty clear that Cullen isn't overly fond of it. 

"I think most men would be thrilled to have so many girls clobbering over him."

Cullen snorts. "It's  _exhausting_." As if to punctuate his point, he tilts his head back so it bumps against the community wall, and exhales heavily. 

Noelle doesn't reply. Instead, she stares out at the parking lot and tries to pretend that her bag isn't feeling three times heavier than it was before. Near them, a pair of men are smoking and speaking softly, and in the distance a group of girls are making their way across the parking lot. They're all young, probably 14, and arm-in-arm and laughing at some joke. One looks at Cullen as she walks by, and when she catches Noelle smiling at her, she flushes and quickly continues walking.

"You've got another one," Noelle remarks to Cullen.

"Oh, _God._ " He tilts his head to look at Noelle. "I don't expect you to stay out with me, you know. I'm perfectly content to freeze out here instead of going back inside."

Noelle laughs at this.  "Come on, Mr. Rutherford, it'll be fine."

It's not.

They go back inside, this time not arm-in-arm, and find a seat at one of the empty tables. The Andrews Sisters have taken the stage, and have gotten most of the floor on their feet. Most of the stragglers were sitting at tables on the outskirts of the room, engaged in poker games and heavy conversation. All three of the girls are wearing matching, floor length gowns - all in different colours. They're crammed around one microphone while the band plays around them. Sometime in the middle of this,a girl slides into the seat next to Cullen and begins chatting with the table (but mostly Cullen). 

Across the room, the mayor comes down from his office wearing a curious little frown. Which, of course, means he’s noticed someone was in his office. And he’s probably surveying the room looking for suspects. Noelle shifts her attention away from the mayor, focusing instead on Cullen. He’s across the table from her, engaged in some idle conversation with a young lady who appears to be more into him than he is her. His nose crinkles as he laughs at a joke, and Noelle frowns. Has that always happened? Then again, how often does she see him laugh? She clutches her handbag tightly on her lap. It’s unlikely anyone is going to ask to go through it, but it still feels like a necessary precaution.

“Say, Mr. Rutherford,” the girl says, as if seized by some great idea, “Wanna go dance?” She shimmies her shoulders playfully.

“No.”

The girl looks hurt, and Noelle does sympathize, but the briskness of Cullen’s response startles a laugh out of Noelle.

“I-uh.” Cullen is clearly panicking, eyes wide and stammering. Noelle stifles a second laugh into her palm, but the girl fixes Noelle with a steely glare. “I mean, no, thank you. I’m not really one for dancing.”

“Oh.” The girl deflates like a balloon.

“If you’re looking for a dance partner,” Noelle suggests, leaning forward, “That man by the bar has been sadly lacking most of the night.”

The girl pauses, looking between the man and Cullen, and seems to come to some sort of a conclusion after a lengthy silence. “Thank you, I think I’ll take him up on that.”

As the girl leaves, skirt swirling out around her as she moves, Noelle looks at Cullen. She means to give him a raised eyebrow sort of look but he is staring too intently at his hands to notice. When he finally tears his gaze away, Noelle’s eyebrows have lowered. She smiles, wryly, instead. Cullen’s returning smile is weaker, half-hearted and dimple-free. It occurs to Noelle that she’s never actually seen anyone flirt with Cullen before. Naturally it must happen. Look at Cullen, it must. Tousled blonde curls, dimples if you can charm a smile out him, handsome even.

“Out of practice?” Noelle says, teasingly.

“Never been in practice,” Cullen replies. He rubs the back of his neck.

“I could offer a few lessons,” Noelle says, with enough of a laugh that Cullen knows she’s joking.

"I'm not sure my heart could take that."

"But seriously, have you ever been,  _in practice_?" Noelle says it broadly, and finishes with a broad and sort of helpless hand gesture. Cullen seems to get the point, however, because he coughs and tugs at the tie around his neck. 

"Maybe once. Before," Cullen starts, then pauses. "Not in a while. And even then, it wasn't...a regular occurrence." A smile flickers on his lips, as if he's just recalled something. "There weren't a lot of children in Honnleath, maybe only a few girls were even around my age. There was one, though, that when I beat her grade on a spelling quiz pushed me into the pond by the school." His smile is rueful. "That's probably the best way to describe my romantic life."

"Did you spend a lot of time getting shoved into ponds?"

"Only twice." Cullen shrugs, as if that's not an unusual thing to say.

Noelle is about to question it, but then the Andrews Sisters say goodnight, the MC quickly hops on the stage, and Dean Martin is introduced and then Cullen's history of falling into ponds is quickly forgotten. The rest of the Rat Pack doesn't turn up, which is only a bit disappointing, but Dean puts on a hell of a show, and when he wraps it up with the usual charm, he leaves the whole audience laughing and smiling along. Cullen even starts bobbing along. Slowly, the crowd starts to file out. The chatter is loud, boisterous, fun, and as Noelle and Cullen leave the community center there are groups singing In The Misty Moonlight to the passing girls. There’s a feeling of cheer in the air, which Noelle gets swept along with until she remembers the contents of her purse. It weighs on her mind as she makes her make the motel with Cullen. Thankfully, he seems content to walk in amiable silence.

Cullen actually walks Noelle all the way to her room, despite his room being literally right door to hers, and smiles as he wishes her goodnight. Noelle steps inside to find the room empty. Which for a brief moment is worrying. Cassandra tends to duck out of big events early, but then Noelle remembers how absolutely enamored Cassandra is with Dean Martin, and is probably sticking around the community center trying to get an autograph.

Since the desk is covered in Cassandra’s notes and files, Noelle is left to improvise her own. As it turns out, the bible tucked away in the nightstand works just fine for a sturdy surface. Still in her formal dress, Noelle sits cross-legged on the bed, pen in mouth, as she considers what to write. After several moments, what she starts is not a fluff-piece, but a fairly critical article on the mayor’s activities. She’s two pages in when Cassandra turns up, a small giddy grin on her face.

“Didn’t get the chance to run off with Dean-o?” Noelle asks.

Cassandra just grins. “No, but I shook his hand.” This is said like it’s literally the greatest thing that has ever happened to Cassandra. And maybe it is. Cassandra seems so lost in some Dean Martin fueled dream land that the whole time she’s getting ready for bed she doesn’t ask a single question about why Noelle is sitting on her bed in a cocktail dress writing furiously. Before Noelle knows it, Cassandra is in bed. There’s not even a single complaint about the table lamp being on, or the way Noelle keeps tapping her pen against her chin. Noelle’s not sure what time it is when she’s finished writing, but it’s definitely late by the time she has a working rough draft.

She stares down at her notebook.

This is actually exactly what she was told not to do.

And problematically, she knows exactly why.

“Chronic Snoop” is not an endearing quirk to any Empress who values her privacy. And the Duchess is here. And Florienne already saw Noelle leaving the mayor’s office in a hurry. Noelle frowns. She could go to sleep, but she can recognize that tightness in her chest that means it may be hard. If her mind could just stop racing, then maybe she could drift off. Going to sleep still exciting seems to be a fairly predictable recipe for bad nights.

So, instead, Noelle gets up. She isn’t sure what her plan is, other than she needs to move, and maybe pace the hallways. Once she gets up, she feels the skirt of her dress brush against her legs and decides to change into pajamas. Probably a little less strange to wear this than to wander the hallways in her dress from the Benefit. She does two laps of the hallway in her pajamas, and the motel clerk doesn’t appear to notice or care all that much. The halls are quiet as Noelle walks. To write an aimless fluff piece feels morally wrong. But. Then, if Noelle wants to see the Empress she probably has too.

Walking doesn’t solve her moral quandary, unfortunately. Most of the rooms have their lights off. Only one door has a sliver of light peeking out from the crack, and it’s Cullen’s. Noelle pauses in front of it. . He probably just fell asleep with the light on, Noelle tells herself. She bites her lip, frowning slightly. Probably asleep, but maybe not.  
She returns to her own room, grabs the papers from off her bed, and heads right back out. Cassandra doesn’t even stir.

It’s a definitive sign that Noelle’s been up too late when she knocks on Cullen’s door without a moment’s hesitation. Within moments, there is a bleary, “hello?” from the other side of the door. As if he’d just woken up. And, of course, it’s late, he was probably sleeping. Some people just leave their lights on. Noelle suddenly feels very foolish.

“It’s just me,” she says. “If this is a bad time..I can just go, it’s nothing urgent it’s just-”

And then the door opens.

Cullen is in pajamas, a pair of blue striped pants and a white undershirt; the whole outfit partly covered by a soft red robe. He blinks at Noelle, squinting wearily, through his reading glasses. The bedside lamp is on by the bed, with a book facedown on the bed. He’s clearly been awake for a bit at least.  
Free from the guilt of waking him up, Noelle swallows down whatever reservations she has about this idea.

“Ms. Trevelyan, how can I-”

She thrusts the papers at his chest. “What do you think of these?”

He gapes, for the slightest of seconds, before adjusting his glasses and taking a closer look. It only takes a second before his eyes narrow, and his lips purse. “Please tell me these were given to you?”

Noelle shrugs, half-apologetic.

Cullen sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. He must have washed the gel from his hair, as it now is starting to form tight curls. “Come in.” He steps aside to make room for Noelle.

The moment the door closes, Cullen folds his arms, and leans back against the door. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but were there not specific instructions about snooping?”

Whatever snaps in Noelle each time this happens doesn’t, for once, and Noelle just shakes her head. “Just - read it over first, tell me what you think.”

Thank the Lord for small miracles, Cullen acquiesces. While Cullen skims the papers, Noelle sits down on the edge of Cullen’s bed. She lets her bare feet swing back and forth, toes rubbing against the grey carpet. The dust jacket has been removed from Cullen’s book, so Noelle has to twist to properly read the spine and see what he’s been reading. Unsurprisingly, it isn’t familiar to Noelle, but it appears to be a history book of some sort. Noelle spots the word “Inquisition” on the spine, and she stops herself from picking it up and skimming through it. Cullen’s frown is deepening as he reads, that little crease appearing between his brows.

When he’s finally finished, he lowers the papers, and looks at Noelle. “Do you know anything else about this?”

“Not much, sadly. The two company reps are staying in this motel, and they met with the mayor today to discuss signing over the property. It doesn’t sound like he has council approval. Nor does it sound like the town wants this to happen.”

“Look.” He sighs again. “It’s not that this isn’t serious, Ms. Trevelyan, but you were given specific instructions and this-” he waves the papers up slightly, and the rustle with the motion, “is not going to encourage any Empress with half a brain to let you visit.”

“And that’s fine!” Noelle says. “These people are being tricked into raising money for a cause that may already be dead. Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth?”

And just like that, Cullen’s expression softens. He huffs an odd combination of a laugh and a smile and makes his way to Noelle. The bed sinks under his weight, and Noelle has to shift just to keep herself from sliding into him.

“I do,” he agrees. “What do you want to do?”

If she had known he was a sucker for short impassioned speeches about the truth she could have utilized that months ago. “I’m not sure.” Noelle takes the financial statements from Cullen, flipping through time. “I think I want to talk to the mayor. Get his opinion, and emphasize with him. Looking at these reports, no wonder he wants to sell. There wasn’t a way to keep Chumley’s Rest running.”

Cullen nods. “Not unless they got more government funding, but that’s stretched pretty thin as it is. Look here, did you notice the recommendations for the renovations? They were already going to need to replace all of the wiring in the east wing.” Cullen shifts closer, pointing to a small note in the margins of the statement from September. Their shoulders just barely brush. “Now, with the state the building’s in.” Cullen shakes his head. “It would be next to impossible.”

Noelle hums in agreement.

Cullen frowns down at the paper. “I genuinely don’t see another way out of this for them. This benefit can’t raise this much.”

“No.” Noelle shakes her head. Cullen is leaning so close that Noelle could probably bump her head into his with minimal effort. “Some of their iron lungs were destroyed, as well. That’ll cost a lot to fix.“

“Why do you think the mayor is hiding this?” The look Cullen gives Noelle is one of curiosity.

Likely, Cullen already has his own suspicions. If does, he doesn’t let on, and instead waits for Noelle to speak.

“If I had to guess, he’s probably desperate.The letter here mentions that the town was reluctant to sign it over, and the town’s secretary made it sound as if she knew of the offer and was mad about it. He’s probably trying to sign it over before the town can interfere, and continuing dragging themselves into debt.”

“But of course, that means lying to half the town.”

It can’t be a fun dilemma to be in.

Certainly, the mayor’s perspective makes sense. The town is going to run itself dry if it keeps following the late Chumley’s wishes (and, as a side note, how is it possible that Chumley had the worst business sense possible to gift a privately owned hospital to a small town. That is essentially asking for crippling debt). But then, there is a town full of people who desperately want to keep this sanatorium. Who have no idea they’re about to lose it.

“Maybe I’ll talk to the mayor tomorrow,” Noelle says. “Give him a chance to explain himself.”

“You know you won’t be able to publish this if you still want a chance at meeting the empress.” Cullen folds his arms over his chest.

“I know.”

Noelle stretches her toes, curling and uncurling them. Her toes wind up brushing the side of Cullen’s foot. They both pull away sharply. “I. Sorry.”

“No,” Cullen says with a small laugh, “It’s fine.” He clears his throat. “Look, Ms. Trevelyan, barring any major problems, I’ll accept any way you chose to handle this. I know that perhaps lately it hasn’t seemed like it, but I do trust you.”

Maybe it’s just because it’s late, and Noelle is tired, but she feels her chest tighten as she smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Rutherford.”

He chuckles.

“And this kept you up all night?” Cullen arches an eyebrow.

Noelle shrugs. “That, among other things.” You’d think she’d had something to drink, with how willing she is to talk right now.There’s something oddly relaxing about all this. The hotel is silent, only the occasional gust of wind against the window. Normally, Noelle would find the silence stifling. It would feel too much like being isolated instead of alone. This is different, somehow. “I haven’t slept well since...you know.” She says it with a small smile, but the tone still changes. Any semblance of professionalism is out the window, replaced with something quieter. Cullen twists so he’s almost facing her.

“How bad is it?” He tilts his head, softens his voice so it’s all gentleness and concern. Like he’s imploring her to speak more. It occurs to Noelle that she’s probably never properly talked about this - how he’s doing. There were cursory chats in the hospital the how are yous and attempts at proper check-ups. Past that point, Noelle has just deflected the whole thing. But it’s late, and she’s relaxed, and quite frankly she’s not really in the mood to make a joke. So, instead, she shrugs again. She leans back onto the bed, propping herself up her elbows. She’s not sure she can make eye contact with Cullen right now, so she tries to find patterns on the ceiling.

“Some days are better than others,” Noelle admits. In this lighting, the shadows almost make the shape of a rabbit. “Others are…” Others are waking up unable to breath, still feeling the pinky finger she lost and getting tangled in her sheets. “Worse.”

Cullen is silent for a moment. He reaches out, hand settling near Noelle’s arm on the bed. Fingers just inches away from brushing her arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. I wish I could say it gets better, but.” Cullen laughs, and there’s little humour in it.

Noelle, for once, knows better than to ask. She moves her arm, bumping it into Cullen’s hand. He starts, the contact unexpected, and stares down at his hand like he isn’t sure what to do with it.

“Aren’t we just a bunch of sad sacks?” Noelle tries to joke. It’s a flimsy effort, at best, but Cullen still smiles. It’s just as weak as her joke. She likes his hair curly, she realizes. It’s different, firstly, more relaxed. It doesn’t make him any less handsome, it’s just a less polished version that what she normally sees.

Noelle looks like more of a mess. Her pajamas are mismatched, the pants are a bright red and the shirt is a pale pink that is clearly from a different set. She’d spilled chinese food on the red shirt that went with the pants a while ago and hadn’t gotten around to washing it. 

Cullen leans back and matches Noelle’s pose. The bed dips, under his weight, and Noelle almost tips into him.

“So,” Noelle says, “What do you do? When you can’t sleep, I mean?”

"Read, sometimes," Cullen says with a small nod towards the book lying just behind him. "Not always. Sometimes." He pauses again. He's trying to censor himself. Noelle is curious. What sort of secrets Cullen is hiding? He finally seems to decide what to say, and continues. "Sometimes it’s too hard to focus."

When Noelle interviewed returning soldiers, you could see it in their eyes. The trembling of their hands, that far off look in their eyes. Some returned to civilian life with no issue, others.…not so much. So Noelle can make a guess. Not that it makes the situation any easier. "How about you?" Cullen asks. "Besides writing joke columns, that is?" His lips quirk into a small smile.

"I like to listen to the radio.” Noelle says. “Sometimes, really late, the replay old Westerns and I try and catch those. It feels less…lonely, that way.”  
“Westerns?” Cullen says, with a small raise of an eyebrow. “Forgive me, you don’t seem like the type.”

Noelle laughs. “No, I suppose I don’t. When I was little, I would listen to it with my mom while I was learning to knit.”

“And knitting too?” Cullen chuckles, just barely above a huff. “You’re a woman full of surprises.”

“Hah! My mother always said she wanted me to do something that didn’t involve getting into trouble with my brother. Something about keeping idle hands busy.”

“You have a brother?”

“I do. Older. The ‘rebellious’ one. He’s out in California right now, married to a big fancy Antivan diplomat. How about you, any siblings?”

Cullen chuckles again. “A handful. Two sisters, and a brother. We used to play chess together in the summers. Did you ever play?”

“Chess?” Noelle has, but it’s been at least a year. She may have lost to Dorian once in recent memory. “Not recently.”

Cullen stands up. He looks as if he has an idea. “Do you remember how?”

A piece of paper stands in for a chess board, the lines drawn with a pencil and the help of a book to keep the lines straight. Pocket change stands in for the game pieces, a system which ends up being so confusing that Cullen draws a separate index for each coin and it’s respective game piece. It’s still not an efficient system, but it likely doesn’t help that Noelle remembers almost nothing about chess. Cullen is, at the very least, a patient teacher. He only chuckles when she tries to move her bishop diagonally, before reminding her that that isn’t how it works. Despite the small table they could have used, they’re sitting on the bed. Cullen is at the headboard, leaning back against it, while Noelle sits across from him. Between them is the paper board which has been set on top of Cullen’s typewriter case.

Between her lack of experience and the entirely baffling system Noelle isn’t too surprised when she loses the first game. She tries to lose gracefully, and succeeds for all of one game. After her second loss, however, she frowns and leans forward. Her legs are crossed, and her arms rest on her knees, as she scowls at the board.

“I intend to end your winning streak, Mr. Rutherford,” she says, more for herself than Cullen.

“We’ll see about that,” Cullen responds, with a smile that looks like he’s humouring her.  
In the end, Noelle winds up winning after four matches.Cullen looks alarming unsurprised by her victory, and though Noelle gloats, she is left with a suspicion that this loss was intentional. Cullen leans back, stretching his arms up over his head. The fabric of his shirt rides up and Noelle quickly averts her eyes away from the patch of skin it reveals.

“Well,” Cullen says, after a drawn-out yawn, “I suspect it’s probably time one of us goes to bed.”

It’s a point that Noelle concedes to easily. Cullen walks her to the door, which feels unnecessary given the small size of the room. Ever the gentleman, he even opens the door for her.

“Goodnight, Mr. Rutherford,” Noelle says. “And thank you for a much needed distraction.”

“You’re very welcome. And,” Cullen pauses for a moment, the slightest hint of pink flushing across his cheeks, “It’s Cullen. You’ve beat me at chess, you’ve earned it.”

“Well.” Noelle smiles.”That sounds like a good enough prize.” Noelle bites her lip, leans against the doorway for a moment. “We just spent the night alone together in a hotel room, you’re more than welcome to call me Noelle.”

“Oh?” Cullen laughs at this. “Is that all it takes?”

“That, and letting me win at chess helps considerably.” She smiles again, and steps out into the hallway. “Goodnight, Cullen.”

“Goodnight, Noelle.”

 

 

 

It’s a large effort for Noelle to haul herself out of bed the next morning, and when she finally does sit up it ultimately doesn’t feel worth it.

“Good morning,” Cassandra says, tearing her gaze away from a book to raise an eyebrow at Noelle.

“Morning.” Noelle rubs at her eyes. It doesn’t help how heavy her eyelids feel. The morning light shines brightly through the window, and little dust particles slowly move through the air. She stretches her legs out, lifting them up until they are almost level with Cassandra’s bed. Through the wall a radio is audible. A cheery tune carries it’s way into Noelle and Cassandra’s room. Cassandra is tapping her foot idly to the beat.

“What time is it?” Noelle asks. Cassandra doesn’t need to answer. The clock next to the bed makes a ticking sound, the four little numbers reading: 11:31.

“Fuck.” Noelle groans. “It’s almost noon.”

She hadn’t check the time when she left Cullen’s room. The moment she’d gotten into bed, she’d flopped down and fallen asleep. Noelle’s not even sure she look at a clock at any point during her visit with Cullen last night. Was it really so late that Noelle could sleep until noon?

Cassandra just nods.

“Did you try and wake me up?” Noelle asks.

Cassandra shakes her head. “No, it’s much quieter here when you’re asleep.” Her lips quirk into a small smile, and Noelle realizes that Cassandra is teasing.

“Still mad?” Noelle asks, hoping the answer is no. Cassandra doesn't tease when she's seething. Or, she does, but there's a lot more venom behind it.

“Frustrated, perhaps,” Cassandra admits with a shrug, “But you haven’t done anything too foolish yet.”

Yet.

Noelle makes a quick decision to not tell Cassandra about her minor larceny from the night before. Instead, Noelle chuckles. “We still have most of today.”

“Lord help us.” Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Would you like to come grab coffee before going to the community center?”

“Absolutely.”

One failed attempt at waking Cullen, and three cups of coffee later, Cassandra and Noelle head back to their room. Cassandra, once again, gets ready within twenty minutes, while Noelle spends far longer in the bathroom trying to conceal the bags under her eyes. It takes some time, but when she’s finally ready she makes one attempt at waking Cullen (still no answer), before heading down to the community center.

Nothing has really started yet, it’s a little after one and many of the people here are visibly hungover. A table of adults, volunteers at the function, sit around one table with their heads hung low and Styrofoam coffee cups in their hands. The Hawke Brothers stand on the stage, playing a slower and softer song. Garret is squinting at the crowd as if they hurt his eyes. He probably drank too much last night too. His face lights when he spots Noelle, and he waves excitedly. Carver just nods in acknowledgment when he spots her. Noelle tries not to frown. She has the papers in her purse again, though she isn’t sure how she intends to go about putting them back. She scopes the place out, trying to figure out an excuse or an open, but she’s still tired, and frankly, the sneaking around just isn’t for her. She decides to be a little more upfront about things. She finds the mayor in the Community center’s kitchenette, making a pot of coffee over the stove.

“Excuse me, Mayor Dedrich, may I have a word?” She asks, making her way to stand next to him. She rests her hip on the counter and folds her arms loosely over her chest.

“Again?” He asks. His brow is creased, and he’s frowning worriedly. “We already spoke on Friday, what more did you want to talk about?”

Noelle lowers her voice and leans in. “How long have you been planning on selling the sanatorium?”

The mayor’s expression crumples almost at once. “We can talk in my office.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen really likes walking people to doors.  
> Fun fact: I wikipedia'd how to play chess for this chapter and then wound up using NONE of the information I learned. Whomp whomp.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Skyhold Quarterly_ **  
**_June 19th, 1946_ **

 

 

  
**_NEWS_ **  
**_LOCAL ELECTIONS SWEEP THE STATE_ **  
_Town-folk across the state fulfilled their duties and went to the polls this past week to go vote. We trust you have all chosen wonderful representatives for all of your towns, and a special mention goes to Mayor Dedrich of Crestwood, who has won the election for the third year in a row._

**_MANHATTAN FIRE KILLS FOUR_ **  
_Around 3 a.m. last night a fire broke out in a vacant warehouse in Manhattan. The fire appears to have originated on the main floor, and initial investigations seem to believe that the fire was a result of an old and faulty heating system. Foul play has not yet been ruled out. Unfortunately, four unfortunate vagrants happened to be sleeping in the alley next to the building. The fire spread to the lots nearby, including the small shack in the alley, and trapped the vagrants inside. They have not been identified yet. The firefighters, along with the always reliable bucket brigade, manged to save the neighbouring buildings but the vacant warehouse has been nearly destroyed._

**_PUBLIC NOTICE_ **  
_Though we may accept some fault in admitting Lace Harding’s favourite animal is a frog in our previous issue, more fault must be placed on those who keep sending Ms. Harding live frogs. It is not appreciated, wanted, or convenient for any staff member here. Ms. Harding has asked that we report her new favourite animal is a sloth._

 

As Noelle sits down in Mayor Dedrich’s office, he seems to shrink. Resigned, his shoulder’s slump, and his fingers trace a listless circle around the rim of his coffee cup. The sound of the party down below seems like a reminder now, of the things he’s tried to hide. It probably bothers Dedrich more than Noelle. So, she sits in front of the mayor and expectantly waits. The sun shines, a warm and gentle glow, through the window behind the mayor. If he hadn’t adopted such a poor, pitiful, posture, the mayor would likely shield Noelle from the brunt of the suns glare. As it is, the mayor is the guiltiest looking silhouette Noelle has ever seen.

Any other day, and she’d have her pen and notebook on her lap. The portrait of am eager journalist, Noelle ready to write down the next big story.  The mayor is too jittery, however, so Noelle just settles on clasping her hands. Writing things down would definitely scare him off of talking. 

“How did you find out?” Dedrich asks finally.

“I.” Noelle pauses. “I had a suspicion that something was off. And then I found proof.” Slowly, she places each individual document back on Dedric’s desk. “My apologies, but…” She chuckles weakly. “Well.”

Shockingly the mayor doesn’t even show much sign of outrage. That may, in fact, be the most worrying part of this. “Does anyone else know?” He asks.

“No.” Noelle shakes her head.

“Why are you even asking me? Isn’t it your thing to publish scandalous information?”

There’s something bitter in his tone that makes Noelle wonder if he’s had bad experiences before.

“I like to think I try and see all sides of the story first.” Noelle offers up a small shrug. “Which is why I’m here. This looks pretty damn bad."

Dedrich takes a moment to reply. He looks ashamed, indignant, and several other things at all once.

When he does speak, his shoulders are tight and jaw is clenched. “I don’t think James realized what he was doing, leaving his father’s legacy to the town.” Dedrich sighs. “He was wealthy, the whole family was. To them, a couple thousand dollar repair wasn’t much. To Crestwood, that much money affects everything. But the council, they all wanted it and I couldn’t say no. I don’t think I realized, either, how hard this was going to be. Chumley’s Rest had become such a focal point for the town. In the summer’s we used to have concerts in the gardens. The fresh air was good for the patients, and it cheered us all up. Which was something we needed, the times being what they were. The building was hardly up to code when it was built, let alone now. We were looking at having to rewire most of the West Wing, to accommodate the Iron Lungs we needed. Just when we thought the TB was getting under control along comes polio. And now.” Dedrich stops for a second, breathing heavily. “The bridge is about the collapse, there’s a pot hole on Main Street that we haven’t fixed, the arena needs upkeep and we’re just finishing up fixing what was destroyed in the storm. If we keep fixing Chumley’s Rest, it’s going to be like throwing the towns money into a quicksand. We got the offer to buy it out months ago. Most of council refused to budge. After the storm. Well, I thought it was time. There’s no way we can rebuild everything, not even with the money we’ve raised. I was hoping.” He sighs. “I’m not sure. With the representatives here I was hoping to come up with a decisive plan, one that the council couldn’t say no too. This was the first week they’d been able to make it out, I’ve been trying to stall this banquet until then. Clearly,” he laughs weakly, “it didn’t work.”

“And I imagine you can’t sell town property without the council’s permission?”

“Not unless I want to risk a lawsuit.”

Noelle chews on her lip thoughtfully. This would be a great story. Tragedy, deceit, and the underlying sense of hopelessness big news stories traditionally come with. Looking at it from the outside, it makes perfect rational sense to sell the sanatorium and be done with it. But that disregards the attachment the whole town must feel towards this place.

Distantly, Noelle wonders if she could find a copy of a picture of one of those old summer concerts.

But, she reminds herself, she isn't supposed to be doing any of this. Unfortunately, Noelle can still feel the pull of a good story tugging at her. This would make waves. But then there’s this great big 'but'. Even simply seeing The Empress is bigger than this. Which, frankly, is a bit of a depressing thought but Noelle knows the opportunity of a lifetime when she sees one. Bad as it sounds, something like Crestwood does tend to come around every now and again.

The thought stings.

“I wish I could offer something more,” Noelle says. “Help, advice, anything.” She shrugs, a little helplessly. For whatever little it’s worth, I won’t say anything yet.”

It kills her to say. She'd all but decided by the time she woke up that she was willing to wait for the bigger fish, the more exciting story. But it wasn't an easy choice, and it isn't one she's thrilled about making.

Across the desk from her, Dedrich's relief is almost palpable.

“But.” Noelle continues, her voice firm. Dedrich’s shoulders tense, and his lips quirk down into a frown. “You should tell them. This isn’t fair to keep them going like this, thinking they’re going to be able to make a difference.”

“Things aren’t always that easy, Ms. Trevelyan.”

Noelle sighs. “Of course.” She isn’t entirely sure how to excuse herself. Does she shake his hand, like this is a professional meeting? Or does she just leave? What she winds up settling on is an apologetic shrug. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to say. Thank you for your time, Mayor Dedrich. Enjoy the rest of the Benefit.”

Noelle is stopped on the steps by Florienne, who’s waiting by the office door. She’s leaning back against the wall, cigarette draped between her fingers. Her hair is pinned back into tight, perfect curls, the white-blond nearly sparkling in the lighting. She doesn’t start, or move at the sight of Noelle. Instead, she smiles, all charm and royalty. Noelle only catches a glimpse of the pearl-white teeth behind her red lips.

“Oh, Duchess.” Noelle tilts her head, a makeshift curtsy. “My apologies, I didn’t see you there.”

“No, it’s no trouble,” Florienne replies. “I thought I may imitate you and try coming here for a break. The crowd is much smaller today, but sometimes one just needs air, yes? This stairwell is remarkable, you can almost hear everything.” Florienne cocks her head to the side. Something in Florienne’s tone sounds just ominious enough to make Noelle nervous.

“Ah, yes.” Noelle agrees. “It’s as if you’re hardly missing any of the show.”

Florienne nods. “Of course. Speaking of shows, I don’t suppose you saw Dean Martin’s show last night?”

“I did, in fact. One of my colleagues is quite smitten by him.” Noelle smiles.

“He was truly delightful, wasn’t he? I can see why he’s so popular in America. We are missing artists like this in Orlais. Everyone is so caught up in chasing the old days I think they lose sight of the future. Truly,” Florianne smiles a delightfully charming little smile, “I think Orlais could learn a thing or two from America, don’t you?”

“I think we all lose sight of things from time to time,” Noelle says, and tries to pretend she’s not as unsettled as she feels. Somehow she’s left with the strange feeling that Florienne is having some whole other conversation with her, her words dancing coy little circles around Noelle. It’d be one thing if she could figure out why but as it is it feels like she’s walking into a trap. “If you’ll excuse me, Duchess.”

It’s not a particularly satisfying resolution. Noelle desperately wants to talk to Cassandra about things, despite knowing she definitely shouldn’t. Cassandra may have a helpful opinion. It probably wouldn’t be a comforting one, or overly supportive, but Cassandra has never been good at those two things. Cassandra actually been the one to vouch for Noelle when she’d applied to Skyhold Quarterly those years ago. Back then, she’d been harsher. Time hadn’t exactly softened her, she’d still murder Varric in a heartbeat if she heard the stories he told of her. But, Noelle is sure Cassandra wouldn’t murder her if Noelle admitted what she’d done, and that’s something.

And, most importantly of all, despite Cassandra looking desperately fed up with the man sitting next to her at their table, she hasn’t punched him in the throat just yet. She does look like she wants to, but the restraint is admirable.  Cassandra has chosen the table furthest away from the stage, and is drinking her fourth cup of coffee of the day. Their table does have a good view of the stage however, where the Hawke Brothers continue to play. The man next to Cassandra is chatting away. It’s hard to tell if he’s flirting, or just making conversation. Once Noelle takes her seat next to Cassandra, however, it becomes clear the man is just interested in hearing himself talk.

“Lord help me,” Cassandra groans, under her breath. Noelle snorts.

“You should listen to him,” she suggests. “Maybe some of his stories can make it into the Quarterly?”

“And, frankly, I told Andy that I thought allowing the chickens to roam freely was a bad idea, but I suspect I didn’t realize how bad, and that’s when-”.

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “We can replace Varric’s column.”

“And then where would all your juicy romance stories come from?”

“I should never have told you I read those.”

“Realistically, there was only so often a switched dustjacket was going to work as a decoy.”

“And there’s this train that comes through town on Tuesday’s - big thing, covered in graffiti. Tried to ride it when I was a kid. You should have seen the scolding my mother gave me.”

“Have you seen Cullen today?” Cassandra asks instead of acknowledging the man next to her. He’s actually not even looking at them, rather talking to the whole table. This might have netted him a captivated audience last night, when most of the tables were full. Today, however, it is too early and only a handful of people have arrived, and at the moment the only other person sitting with them is desperately hungover and may even be dozing off.

“No,” Noelle says. She shrugs, like she doesn’t know where on earth Cullen could be. She assumes still in his room. But then, it’s nearing one and she can’t imagine him sleeping in quite so late regardless of how late he was up. At work he’s alway the first one there. And typically the last to leave. Actually, it is rather strange he’s not around yet.

Cassandra frowns. “I should go check on him.”

Noelle starts talking before she starts thinking. “No, I can go.”

“Are you sure?” Cassandra tilts her head to the side. Like she’s studying Noelle, trying to figure out what exactly Noelle is trying to do.

“I’m sure,” Noelle says. “Besides, Garret’s still playing. Don’t you want to see the rest of his set?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes, but doesn’t disagree.

 

The walk back to the motel is quiet. Relatively warm weather means that for once the cold doesn’t bite at Noelle’s face and she doesn’t need to wear hear gloves. Inside the motel it’s equally quiet. There’s a new clerk at the desk, this time a older man with a wispy mustache and thick glasses. There’s a book open on his desk, and he seems to be reading it so intently that he hardly looks up as Noelle walks past.

The first couple knocks on Cullen’s door at met with silence. “Cullen?” She raps again. “Cullen, are you alright?”

This time there’s sound, a rustling noise like feet on carpet. Behind the door, Cullen mumbles something inaudible. Finally, after what feels like too long, the door opens. It’s been chained shut, and Cullen appears to have forgotten this. The door opens, stopping suddenly as the chain tightens and rattles with the strain. Cullen curses softly, then apologizes through the crack. Then, the door closes and Noelle can hear Cullen fumbling with the chain. After what feels like too long, the door fully opens.

“Noelle.” Cullen stands in the doorway, frowning. “What’s going on on? Didn’t The Hawke Brothers start their set at noon?”

“They did, actually. Cassandra and I drew straws to see who would come check up on you.” She smiles, jokingly, but Cullen doesn’t seem to notice. “Is everything alright?”

Cullen scratches at his jaw. The cuff of his left sleeve is unbuttoned, loosely falling over his wrist. A tiny cuff link buckles up the cuff of his other sleeve, however. He looks as if he was in the middle of getting dressed when Noelle arrived. “More or less. You didn’t need to come check on me.”

“I told you, we drew straws.”

Cullen huffs a laugh. “Alright. You can come in if you want, I shouldn’t be too much longer.”

He steps back and holds the door open until Noelle is inside. The room is virtually unchanged since the night before. The makeshift chess board is on the nightstand, underneath a glass of water. The blankets have been kicked into a heap at the foot of the bed, and a suitjacket thrown over it. Noelle leans against the wall as she looks around the room. Cullen moves slowly. Almost too slowly, in fact. It’s like each step in the process of getting ready takes every bit of effort he has. Shaky hands fumble with the cufflink on the left sleeve. His cheeks are flushed, like he’s too warm. Noelle frowns.

“Have you spoken with the mayor yet?” Cullen asks. Cufflinks finally attached, Cullen starts to pull on a navy gray vest. This he struggles less with, though there is still a distinct tremor in his fingers.

“I have,” Noelle says. “The whole thing is a dreadful affair. You know, reporting on the war may have actually been easier. The Nazi’s were the bad guys, Allies good. We didn’t have time for moral gray areas.” She smiles wryly and shrugs. “Maybe it was bad reporting, but Christ. This is a disaster. You should have seen Dedrich today. He was…he looked exhausted. I mean, I would be too, lying to a whole town. I don’t think he was in the right, but I can see why he wanted to try. The town’s apparently about to fall apart, they’ve needed to cut funding from all sorts of areas in the budget just to keep the sanatorium afloat.” Noelle huffs. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how I’d spin this, honestly. It’s the sort of thing where there are no winners. And this can’t be the only town this has happened too. It’s.” Noelle trails off. “Well, depressing.”

Cullen is staring. Not in any particular way, just as if he’s thinking. “You’re probably right.” He says finally. “It’s something to think about, at least.” Cullen tilts his head to the side. “In case you’re ever looking for a story. Are you sure you want to keep this just about the Benefit?”

Noelle sighs. “The Duchess doesn’t seem to hate me, I think that may work in my favour. There’s a good story here, Cullen, but I don’t think I can write about it.”

“That’s a big sacrifice,” Cullen says. But he doesn’t argue. He grabs a tie from his suitcase instead, wrapping it round his neck. Noelle watches as he fumbles with the knot.

“Are you okay?” Noelle asks. The man has worn a tie to work every day for years. And yet he’s looking at it as if isn’t sure what to do.

“Yeah,” Cullen says, chuckling weakly. “I’m fine. Just…stiff fingers, I suppose.”

Impulsively, Noelle steps forward. “Here, let me.”

Cullen freezes, hands pausing on the silk tie he’s having such a hard time with. Noelle freezes too, just for a second, and she allows herself to feel a little foolish. After a moment, Noelle raises her hands to hover near Cullen’s tie, asking silent permission. Cullen drops his hands to his sides and nods.

She probably isn’t the most helpful at this, actually. She was barely good at tying ties with all of her fingers. The tie is nice, a solid blue silk that matches the vest and jacket. It takes one or two attempts to get it right, but still, she manages. As she pulls the tie into a knot, she can’t help but think that this shade of red seems to suit Cullen.  
Cullen watches her while she works. Noelle can feel the weight of his gaze and has to stop herself from looking up to meet it. “Here’s an interesting little fact,” Noelle remarks, wrapping the tie round once. She forces herself to keep her eyes on the tie. “I tied my brother’s tie the day he proposed to his wife.”

“Is that so?”

“It absolutely is. He was so nervous, I remember he was convinced that everything had to be perfect, down to the knot of his tie. I probably shouldn’t have been his first choice. He couldn’t stop pacing. I think he thought that she’d say no if the knot of his tie was wrong.” Noelle smiles at the memory. “She said yes.”

“In no small part thanks to your efforts, I imagine.”

Noelle laughs, finishing the knot and gently wiggling it up until it rests snugly against Cullen’s neck. “I like to think so.” Then, Noelle makes the fatal mistake of looking up. Her smiles falters. This close, she can see the wrinkles around Cullen’s eyes, the way they crease as he smiles. The scar on his lip, faint and pale. Her hands still. She can feel his throat move as he swallows. It’s like her hands are frozen. Cullen is staring so softly at Noelle, a little smile tugging up the corners of his lips. His eyes flick down, briefly, to Noelle’s lips. Just as quickly, he’s blinking and stammering. The first “I-uh” breaks whatever hold Noelle was under, and she drops her hands. “There you go,” she says, patting him twice on the chest. Nervously. Why is she nervous? “One acceptable tie.”

Cullen chuckles. Slowly, at first, like he isn’t entirely sure what just happening and is still trying to figure out the correct way to respond.

“I-Thank you.” His cheeks, if possible, are redder now. Noelle’s heart feels as if it’s beating too quickly, nervous thumping that may actually be audible. Noelle swallows.

“You’re very welcome,” she manages. Neither of them appear to be able to look at each other, each breaking eye contact the moment the other tries to make it, and as a result the silence lasts far too long. There is a tension in the air now. Likely imaginary, Noelle figures, a sort of lingering realization of just how close they were to each other. Noelle’s always been tactile, touching the soft silks and furs at the fine Orlesian stores her mother used to visit. But this, each time she gets left alone with Cullen for too long it feels like the normal functioning part of her brain is taken over by some sort of lunatic desperate to put her foot into her mouth and her hands on him. It’s something she generally tries not to think about.

“Do-“ Noelle starts, just as Cullen says, “I’ll-“.

They look at each other, breaking into a nervous laughter. Frankly, Noelle wasn’t even sure whet she was going to say (historically, all signs would point to something foolish), so when Cullen gestures at her to continue Noelle has to insist that, in fact, it’s fine, and Cullen should go ahead. Cullen scratches at the back of his neck, looks askance. “I was just going to say I could walk you back, I think I’m ready to go.”

“Ah, yes, alright.”

Noelle keeps her hands tucked firmly into her jacket pockets, eyes focused straight ahead, as she walks. Or she puts in a good effort. Curiosity keeps getting the best of her, and she looks at Cullen. Cullen conveniently finds something interesting on the ground to stare at. Crestwood is charming, in a way. Everything seems small. There are now towering buildings in the skyline. In fact, the highest thing in sight is the church steeple, sticking up from the center of town like a map marker. Even that is, comparatively, small. Noelle can imagine day to day life is quiet, nothing like the cars lining the streets on the way to the community center and the crowd milling about Main Street.

“Was Honnleath like this?” Noelle asks, suddenly. “I mean, not right now, obviously. Just in general. You know, ‘small-town-y’?”

Cullen hums, and looks around. “Honnleath was smaller,” he says finally. “Much smaller. Quiet, too. It’s not like New York. If you woke up in the middle of the night, you’d hear a bird, or the wind, not the constant sound of traffic or Hawke playing piano at 3 a.m.” He shakes his head. “There were good people there though.” Cullen pauses for a brief second. “Great people, actually. They’d send joint care packages when I was overseas, with socks and candies they’d bought before rationing.”

“They sound lovely.” Noelle had helped make a few care packages, joined with old women with canes and girls with pigtails. It was a matter of morale. Or so the argument went, at least. Little packages like that kept soldiers from being too beaten down by the trenches and bloodshed and cold. And, from the way Cullen is smiling, it did it’s job.

“They really were. My sister, Mia - I told you about her last night - she would slip little jokes into the socks. Things that would take me a few days to find. At first, I would dig through my bag trying to figure out where she’d hidden them. Later, I would wait. Just knowing it was there was something to look forward too. I’m sorry.” Cullen shakes his head like he’s clearing from a fog. “You probably don’t want to hear about all this.”

“No.” Noelle shakes her head. “No, it’s nice.”

“Oh.” Cullen, from tone alone, sounds pleasantly surprised. Noelle is still trying to avoid looking at him.

Inside the community center, the stage has been taken by a magician when Noelle and Cullen walk in. A tall, wiry man, in a blue top hat sits on the edge of the stage, surrounded by eager children. Most are still in their Sunday best, likely having walked over right after the morning church service. Cassandra, at a table in the far corner of the room, looks as if she’s trying to look disinterested and is failing rather miserably. The magician is in the midst of a card trick, checking the children’s sleeves and coats and behind their ears. Finally, after minutes of anticipation, the magician pulls aside a startled volunteer and pulls the card from the woman’s pocket. The woman laughs, cheeks flushing a violent red, before she hurries back to the kitchen. The children’s applause seems to follow her.

"Miss anything good?" Noelle asks, sliding in next to Cassandra.

Cassandra takes a moment to respond. She looks at Noelle, and then at Cullen, like she's trying to piece something together. If she notices something, she doesn't say anything, and finally admits that Noelle missed quite the magic show. Sawing a girl in half, rabbit from a hat, the whole nine yards. Apparently it hadn't just won the children over. When the magician takes his final bow, it's met with applause from throughout the room.

As volunteers start to shuffle the magicians props off the stage and through the side exit, Cassandra looks at Cullen. "Are you well?"

He nods. "I am, thank you. Just tired. Yourself?"

Cassandra says, "I'm fine, Cullen." She rolls her eyes, as if she's mocking Cullen for asking the question. As if Cassandra has ever been anything other than fine. "It will be nice to go back home. Hotel beds are lacking, I find. It doesn't help matters when people keep coming in and out of the room."

Noelle pours herself a cup of coffee instead of meeting Cassandra’s pointed stare. Tireless volunteers keep whisking away any and all empty karafs and replacing them with full pots. How on Earth they're keeping up is beyond Noelle, but they could serve to teach the Red Jenny a lesson. Once she's done adding creamer, she lifts the karaf towards Cullen. She holds it above his cup, waiting for his invitation, and after Cullen gives a surprised nod, she pours him a cup too. Cassandra's knee finds Noelle's, and Cassandra raises an eyebrow. Noelle tilts the karaf towards Cassandra. Cassandra doesn’t fall the deliberate obtuseness, or the wordless offering, however, and looks between Noelle and Cullen with a curious little frown.

It's nice, actually, having coffee with Cassandra and Cullen. The two get along well, like old friends, and the conversation flows easily.

"Did you shake off your admirers?" Cassandra asks. Only a small quirk of lips lets on that she may be teasing.

Cullen snorts. "Thank the Lord, yes."

"Good. Shame you can't ignore people like you do your fanmail."

Cullen cringes at this. Noelle almost does as well. "Yes, well, unfortunately I can't just tuck women away in the bottom of my desk drawer like you can with mail."

Noelle laughs. "That would make life at the office more interesting, for sure. Have you read any of the letters?"

"I've been putting it off. A few of them have been doused in perfume already. I'm a bit fearful of seeing the actual contents, honestly."  
"We could do dramatic readings," Noelle suggests, with a teasing smile. "Take turns opening them and swooning over you."

Cullen huffs a small laugh.

Despite his reluctance towards the idea, Noelle doesn't stop. Instead, she wiggles her shoulders playfully, and does her best to look coquettish. "Ohhh, Cullen, you're just so dreamy. I know we've never met but I'm sure you're positively dashing."

Cullen is the middle of a sip of coffee when he starts to laugh. His laugh is cut short by the subsequent coughing fit. He apologizes almost the moment he composes himself, red-faced and still sputtering. Cassandra wordlessly passes over a napkin.

"I think I'd rather not," Cullen says, though he's still smiling.

  
The rest of the Benefit goes off without a hitch, and it’s almost disappointing for Noelle. She's not sure what she wanted to happen, honestly. Maybe for the mayor to go up and publicly apologize, at least that would give her the chance to write about it. It’d make her feel a bit better, and it’d be more interesting than writing about the local church band playing at the moment. Instead, she jots down notes about the decorations and the mood of the crowd. The guests are cheery, if exhausted, and still get up to dance. The last singer to take the stage is relatively unknown to Noelle, a deep-voiced crooner who seems determined to go home with someone in the audience. He keeps winking at the girls, so Noelle finds a spot at the back of the room to watch the proceedings. Cassandra sits at the same table, still drinking coffee, and chatting with Cullen. There's still a tremor in Cullen's hands, less intense than earlier but still there.

It's worrying.

But, then, frankly, as much as they've been speaking lately, they're still not exactly close. Not at the point where they're going to start spilling all their deepest secrets to each other or anything. And thinking about this is hardly relevant, and it's distracting, and it's starting to make Noelle's stomach do weird little twists (because, of course, it's weird worries about him being sick, or dying, or things that shouldn't bother her as much they do).

So she focuses on work, and tries her best to compile her notes on the bus ride home. She's curled up in the window seat, her jacket draped over her legs. With the amount of files Cassandra had been given by Lucius, she'd insisted on having two seats. The documents get the window seat, while Cassandra sits in the aisle seat across from Cullen and Noelle. She'd missed a pretty big chunk of the night snooping around and bothering the mayor, so having Cullen next to her is an asset. As he tells it, he was so busy trying to avoid people he spent a lot of time pretending to be really into the performances. So Cullen fills in gaps, or offers opinions. He suggests mentioning the children, eagerly watching the magic show.

“It would make it seem more heartwarming.”

“Got it, boss.” There’s a pause. “Should I mention you were very nearly the belle of the ball?”

"Please don't," Cullen says, with the hint of smile. 

All in all, it doesn’t take long to write up an outline. Noelle’s typewriter is at home, at the kitchen counter, so she’ll have to wait to properly type anything up, but an outline should expedite the process. Cullen leans over the armrest to peer at Noelle’s notes, and their shoulders brush while he asks if Noelle noticed how hungover Garret was this morning. And how hungover he still is. The Hawke Brothers are part of the crowd on their way back to New York. Garret is snoring loudly and the noise reaches all the way to the back of the bus. Carver seems to be awake. Noelle can just spot the top of his move bob as he shifts in his seat and hear his occasional beleaguered sigh.

Noelle watches the scenery whiz by, snow-covered trees and houses lining the roads. Slowly, she starts to doze off. Her head dips, and she jolts back up. Her eyelids are heavy and she can’t hold back a long yawn. And then she shifts, so she’s slumped against the back of the chair, and closes her eyes. Though, at first, she tells herself she’s just “resting her eyes”, at some point she actually falls asleep.

When Noelle wakes up, they’re in New York City. She’s curled up in her chair, with something heavy draped over her. She can feel her jacket still, but now there’s something else covering her. She’s leaning sideways, head resting on something warm and hard.It takes her a moment to piece together that it’s Cullen shoulder she’s sleeping on. She tenses, but stays still and tries to make an inventory of her surrounding. There’s a kink in her neck, sharp and aching. Beneath her head, Cullen’s shoulder rises and falls softly. His breathing is slow, relaxed. Is he sleeping too? She starts to shift, freezing when Cullen lets out a heavy sigh. He slumps slower, dropper his shoulder down. After a moment, tilts his head so his cheek rests against the top of Noelle’s head and Noelle feels a little twinge of panic. This is, first of all, horrifically inappropriate, and also mortifying. Worse than that, it’s cozy, and Noelle can’t seem to find the nerve to move.

Cullen clearly spent most of the day exhausted, and he probably needs the rest.

Or, at least, that’s what Noelle tells herself. She’ll give it ten minutes. She tries to not shift too much, though inadvertently winds up snuggling closer against him to get comfortable. Curiously, she cracks open her eyes. Even without tilting her head she can see it’s Cullen’s jacket covering her shoulders.

Maybe she’ll give him fifteen minutes.

City lights shine through the bus window, twinkling warmly, from tall buildings cover up the skyline. On the road it, in between towns and trees, there had been brief moments where the land just…sprawled out, open, for miles. In New York you can’t see the next block over. There’s a brief moment where Noelle starts to reflect on the beauty of it, but then she catches sight of someone throwing a garbage can at a car and vetoes the thought.

At the front of the bus, Garret has woken up and is chatting away. Loudly telling tales of his exploits, both at home and overseas. He’s not as good of a story-teller as Varric. Noelle’s heard the same tales a few times over now, from nights at the bar with Varric, but Noelle is almost positive Cassandra is still hanging off of every word. Garret’s story, today, is about how he took on a whole German tank single-handed, after getting lost in the forest near No Man’s Land. Approximately 1/4 of Garret’s stories seem to start with him getting lost. Before Noelle knows it, fifteen minutes has passed and she hasn’t worked up the nerve to move. Ignoring the pain in her neck, it’s kind of comfortable. Her eyes start to drift shut. She’s being indulgent, she knows it, because the minute Cullen wakes up he’s going to flush and then pretend it never happened. Which is fine, she supposes, since Noelle fully intends to do the same.

Cullen starts to stir when the bus hits a monumental pothole that almost lifts Noelle off the seat. He yawns, starts to stretch, and tenses the moment he seems to realize he’s using Noelle’s head as a pillow. Slowly, he lifts his head. Though the movement jostles Noelle a bit, he seems to be actively trying to not disturb her. Noelle forces a yawn. She sits up and pretends as if she’s just starting to wake up.

“I’m sorry.” Just like Noelle figured, Cullen’s flushing a bit, but he’s still making eye contact and looks a little bashful. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine-”

“-wake you.”

They both trail off. Cullen chuckles first, low and soft, and averts his eyes. Noelle doesn’t look away. His hair lies flatter on one side than the other, though it’s beginning to curl all over. And though his cheeks are red, he doesn’t seem embarrassed. Didn’t mean to wake you fully implies that he was okay with her dozing on his shoulder. Which, for the record, is not the kind of thing you do with your boss. Even if he’s handsome and okay with it. Noelle’s cheeks feel warm, too, and she huffs a small laugh and hopes it will alleviate the awkwardness.

It doesn’t.

Instead, Cullen fidgets as if he doesn’t know what to do with hands and Noelle absently fusses with her hair. She’d pinned it back this morning, having been far too lazy to curl it, and now stray hairs are falling loose and tickling her ears and cheek. She tucks what she can behind her ears and hopes for the best.

“Thanks.” Noelle says finally. “For the jacket.”

“You’re welcome.” Cullen smiles.

Noelle doesn’t give it back until the bus pulls into the station. Snow falls in swirls outside of the bus, and Noelle almost regrets having to give it up. Her jacket will definitely do, at least. Cullen’s is still warmer (and it smells nice). Through the bus window, Noelle can see Dorian’s car idling in the lot. People start to file out of the bus, one by one, and Cullen steps further back to let Noelle out first. Cassandra says goodbye by the bus door, and hurries off without looking in Garret’s direction.

“Do you have a ride home, Cullen?” She asks. So far as she knows, Cullen doesn’t have a car and every time she’s run into him lately he’s been walking.

Cullen shakes his head. “I was planning on catching a cab.” Dorian honks the car horn. “I assume that’s your ride?”

“Hah, yeah, that’ll be Dorian. Come on, we can drive you come too.”

“Are you-” Cullen starts, but Noelle cuts him off. “I insist. Dorian won’t mind.”

In fact, Dorian does mind.

Or, at least, Dorian puts on a good enough show of pretending to mind until Cullen starts to apologize. Dorian is all huffs and puffs until Cullen turns away.

“Cullen,” Dorian says, with another huff. “I was kidding. If you want to make it up to me you can get me a coffee tomorrow, or maybe let me win at chess for once.”

“I’ll buy you a coffee.” Cullen sits behind Dorian in the backseat.

Dorian makes small talk on the drive to Cullen’s apartment. Idly chatter about the weekend, about the daily life of the office, and the weather. Despite the presumable chaos of Dorian’s life, the subject never strays to another other than the mundane. The city streets are all compacted snow and ice, and Dorian’s grip on the wheel is tight. Noelle doesn’t really recognize the streets leading up to Cullen’s apartment. It’s a bit further north than she usually strays, and in a worse area of down. It’s not the worst area in New York, for sure, but some of the storefront windows are boarded up and there’s a lot of shady characters waiting around alleyways. Finally they pull up in front of an old, wooden apartment building.The four storied complex is taller than the neighbouring buildings. Paint, brown and chipping, makes it look old and dated. A new paint job is definitely needed. The windows are in rows, equal sizes stacked above one another. The framing is older, swirling arches culminating in a dot on top of the windows. No wonder the heat doesn’t work, the building looks like it’s a little younger than New York City itself. Historic, maybe, but definitely in need of repairs.

“Thanks, Dorian,” Cullen says, patting Dorian on the shoulder over the drivers seat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Noelle.”

“Good night, Cullen.”

With Cullen out the door, Noelle is left with Dorian, who is giving Noelle a look. Noelle makes a point of not looking at him. Instead, she focuses on the dashboard of the car. And when that proves insufficient, watches Cullen fumble with the apartment door lock. At first she worries he’s still having issues, but he has to slam into the door with his shoulder for it to open she realizes it’s just another old building quirk.

“This building is a mess,” she tells Dorian, who is still staring at her.

“’Good night, Cullen’,” he mimics. “When did that happen?”

“This weekend.” Noelle tries to not look embarrassed. She shouldn’t feel embarrassed.

“Well.” Dorian steers the car back onto the street. “I suppose it’s about time you’re on a first name basis with everyone at work. I’ll miss you talking to ‘Mr. Rutherford’ and batting your eyelashes, though.” Dorian’s cadence is not at all like Noelle’s. It dainty and lilting. The perfect fit for a lovestruck girl, admittedly, but not Noelle, and she frowns at the mockery.

“I don’t say it like that.”

“Ah, but you do bat your eyelashes at him.” Dorian casts a quick glance towards Noelle, a smile tugging at his lips. If she bats her eyelashes, it’s not intentional, but that’s not a debate she’d like to get into right now. Dorian typically comes out on top.

“How’s life in the mob?” Noelle asks.

Dorian snorts. “Fine. That’s not getting your out of talking about your little workplace flirtation.”

“Okay-” Noelle starts, raising her finger. “That isn’t-”

“What it is?” Dorian finishes with a laugh. “Whatever you say, but I’m not sure what else to call the doe-eyes you two keep making at each other.”

Noelle frowns.

“The mob is wonderful by the way. Lots of fighting, and swearing, and do you know I think I saw a man who thought he was King George. Kept referring to ‘America’ as the ‘colonies’. If lyrium weren’t such dreadful stuff, it would be one hell of a high.”

Dorian must be in a chatty mood. This is the most information he’s willing volunteered in a long time. Understandably, Dorian has been reluctant to talk about any of this. And he may be right too, because Noelle feels twinges of nervousness each time he brings it up. Stories keep cropping up about the gangs. Gossipy old ladies talk about it a the laundromat; trading stories about how so-and-so’s nephew got killed in a gang fight, or overdosed, or was found floating down the river. Each time Noelle gets nervous.

“The Chargers.” Noelle stops. “They don’t expect you to start taking it, do they?”

Dorian snorts. “Good lord, no. Most of them-” Dorian trails off, a frown overtaking his features. When he does talk, it’s slowly. As if he’s carefully choosing his words “Let’s just say there’s a strict ‘no sampling the goods’ policy.”

“So they’re just dealing red lyrium to people?” Noelle frowns. Somehow that’s worse. Realistically she knows it doesn’t make much sense for them to be taking red lyrium. Too long on it and they’d be too broken to do anything anymore. “And surely they must know what it does to people. That’s reprehensible.”

“Trust me, I am all too aware.”

“And this Bull.” Noelle shifts in her seat, so she’s angled toward Dorian. “He’s okay with this?”

Dorian’s fists clench on the wheel for a moment, and it seems as if he’s holding something back. “He’s doing what he needs to do.”

“Surely there are better ways to make a profit than that.”

Less harmful ways, at least. Hell, selling snake-oils may actually do less damage. Dorian is frowning now.

“Noelle.” Dorian says. His tone is decidedly level, forced even. “I know. Trust me, I know. It’s just.” He sighs and rakes his hand through his hair. “Trust me on this, whatever you surely think of Bull, he’s better than that.”

Dorian’s not going to budge. There’s a look in his eyes. Something stubborn and fierce, the signal that Dorian does not intend to be moved any further. So, Noelle huffs, and relents.

“I’ve been doing this for months, why are you taking issue with this now?”

Dorian turns onto Noelle’s street and slows to a stop in front of Ostwick Apartments.

He makes a valid point. Tracing worry is a bit like unraveling a ball of yarn. By the time’s noticeable it’s basically an giant tangled mess with no discernible point of origin. Still, Noelle tries to follow it to at least a vague conclusion. “I may have made the mistake of reading the papers.”

Dorian snorts. “What a dreadful idea.”

“Will you be at the office tomorrow?” Noelle has one foot out the door before asking.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a satisfying resolution? Tell me about it! I wrote it and I'M frustrated. Damn Noelle and brief moment of restraint!
> 
> Also I realized I have been VERY unclear about iron lungs. They were these crazy heavy duty machines that functioned as working lungs for people wit polio, the downside being that being were often then trapped in the iron lung for the rest of their life (which, admittedly, may not have been for very long). I don't think many places treated polio and TB in the same facility but Crestwood had to make it work (they're very attached to the townsfolk)


	10. Chapter 10

**_Skyhold Quarterly_ **  
**_February 27th, 1947_ **

****

**_NEWS_ **  
**_COMMUNITY RALLIES - CRESTWOOD FUNDRAISER A WHOPPING SUCCESS_ **  
_Just last week I was one of many reporters cramming inside Crestwood’s Community Center to try and get a taste of the star-studded fund-raising Benefit packed inside it’s four walls. And believe me, it was packed. The tickets being sold in advance had been sold out since early February, and the all the tickets sold at the door were snatched up in a matter of minutes. A colleague and I arrived early, on Friday, to get a sneak preview of what life in the town of Crestwood is like. Rolling into the town early in the morning, as the sun peaked over the tops of snow-capped houses, it felt quiet. The streets were still, very different from the hustle and bustle of NYC. To my surprise, when I stepped off the bus, I walked into that was busy in a different way. As I walkd down the street to the Washington Motel (which is not a five star joint, but has an attentive concierge and very clean rooms), I could hear the sounds of children’s laughter and see the remnants of their previous adventures on the front yards of the neighborhood homes. That first morning I made a trip to the Sanatorium. Though the pictures that have been printed give a feel for the damage done to the building, it is nothing like seeing it in person. The tree that shattered the left wing still remains there, a vivid and stark reminder of the community it splintered. Several windows were boarded up, and a snow-capped sign outside warned passersby not to set foot inside. It was a sobering sight. And a stark reminder of the lives that were lost._  
_The grief was still evident on the community members faces that night. The Crestwood Community Center is not a particularly large center, but they had set up a stage along the wall opposite the front door and taped off a small dance floor. It would be little used that, as the evening entertainment was largely community speeches. A number of prominent community members got up to speak - either to tell stories of the sanatorium, or it’s patients, or the brave nurses who worked tirelessly to save whom they could. I had the privilege of sitting next to a lovely lady named Gladys, who appeared intimately familiar with almost everyone in attendance. What Friday lacked in celebrity appearances, it more than made up for it in community spirit. One of the deceased nurses husband’s took the stage and talked about his wife’s dedication to Crestwood._  
_“Elinore loved this town more than anything. Sometimes, I think she loved it more than me. When we met in France, she was just a nurse and I was just a soldier dumb enough to get shot, and she spoke so fondly of this little town that when the war ended she convinced me to move here too. I haven’t regretted a single second of it. Y’all have been so kind, so welcoming, that from the moment Elinore and I arrived it felt like I was home.”_  
_He went on say that Elinore hadn’t been working the night of the blizzard, but the moment the power had gone out she was throwing on her coat and running out the door. As it happens, Elinore was not the only off-duty nurse to rush in and help. Three of these off-duty nurses were killed when the tree hit. Their deaths are still being mourned, but as Elinore’s husband poignantly said: “I think Elinore would tell me it’s time to stop crying - if just so I don’t make a fool of myself in front of Dean Martin.”_  
_Though choked up, he finished his speech with grace._  
_The night ended with a brief address from the mayor, who thanked everyone for their hand work getting everything ready and thanking everyone who turned up._

 _Saturday was different. There was excitement in the air the moment I stepped into the community center. All the tables were filled and volunteers bustled to and fro ensuring not a mug of coffee went unfilled. By the end of the night, a bar was opened and there was a constant line to get a drink. Streamers and balloons lined the walls, masking plain wood paneled walls. Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators started up the affair with gusto. The Chicago born, ladies-only, band wore sequined black dresses with their hair curled and pinned up. Sweet Sue herself wore a stunning beaded affair, with short sleeves and a low, V-Shaped neckline. It took a few songs, but they roused everyone into a quick Lindy Hop. Though most people stayed swingin’ throughout the night, there was one notable exception. When The Andrews Sisters took the stage later in the evening, they brought back a blast to the past and got everyone to form a circle and perform the Big Apple. For those younger folks, or those who missed one of the bigger dance crazes of the Thirties, the Big Apple goes like this: the group forms a circle, and all face inwards. To the beat, the group moves in and out in the circle (this is done through hopping, or kicks, or whatever the group fancies). It alternates between that, and swinging and sashaying ‘round the circle. For the end of the dance, the group partners with the person next to them and ends the dance one-on-one. Each one varies, just a bit, and it all depends on how well you can follow the group. The folks in Crestwood seemed to have no trouble remembering the steps, however. The younger folks in the crowd picked it up pretty quite from some of the older guests, and the whole place was full of dancing and laughter._  
_To those who continue to write our editor, Cullen Rutherford, love letters, please know this: Mr. Rutherford does not dance. So anyone hoping to try and take him out to the Herald’s Rest for a night of dancing, you are unfortunately out of luck. Not even the Big Apple could rouse him. By the time Dean Martin took the stage, most of the place was on their feet. Old Dean-o was his regular self - charming, crooning, and joking with the crowd. Martin wore a black suit, with a red bow tie. As he sung, he swung the microphone side-to-side as if it were his dance partner. At one point, a particularly anxious volunteer started to hover by the side of the stage and looked about to grab the microphone from Martin’s hands. In response, Martin pretended to drop the microphone. The volunteer didn’t find it as amusing as Martin did. Martin seemed to rouse such cheer from the audience that as I was leaving the building that night, some of the more inebrieated party go-ers had struck up an impromptu rendition of That’s Amore in the parking lot. A lot of the guests stuck around in the parking lot after the show ended. Talk about community spirit, leaving to go stand in the cold to continue the party so the volunteers could clean up. The mood was decidedly cheery, and very likely that was influenced by the popularity of the bar. People scattered about in close-knit circles for warmth all across the lot. This made it difficult for those who drove to get anywhere, as they now had to dodge the crowds to get out. Regardless, the whole walk back to the Washington Motel I could hear the sounds of people talking and laughing._

_When I arrived on Sunday, that had not changed. Things were, naturally, a bit quieter, with many of the guests still feeling the ill-effects of party the previous night, but nevertheless The Hawke Brothers received a warm welcome when they began at noon. Garret Hawke, looking a little worse for wear, won over the crowd with his typical charm. With the crowd more than warmed up, Frank Chandler took the stage yet again as Chandu the Magician. Though some of his acts were more heart-stopping than others (including sawing one local girl in half), all of his acts had the children’s attention. They stood in front of the stage, completely enraptured, as Chandu pulled out rabbits, and doves, and seemingly endless scarves. As the Sunday acts wrapped up, one of the members of the local Lady’s Club took to the stage to thank everyone and, finally announce the funds they’d raised. Through ticket-sales, and donations, they had made just over $10,000 dollars. Truly, an incredible success by any account. More funds will need to be raised over the next few months, of course, and there the Women’s League is still happy to accept any further donations._

_Tireless volunteers worked all weekend to ensure things ran smoothly, that the tables never ran out of coffee for more than a moment, and that everyone was truly having a good time. Mrs. Westlake, one of the women responsible for organzing this Benefit, thanked the whole community for their support. As well, she expressed gratitude to the overwhelming outpouring of kind words and donations from the many kind-hearted people from all over the world, many of whom have likely never been to Crestwood._  
_Though restoring the sanitarium to it’s original state will take some work still, there is no doubt that last weekend was a wonderful display of community spirit and generosity._

_\- Noelle Trevelyan_

 

  
Despite Noelle’s fervent wishing, she hears nothing of Crestwood for several weeks. No word of the town being told the truth, no word of anything happening, and Noelle has to stop herself from sending a letter to inquire about the situation. But telling herself to stay out of it, and actually doing it are two separate things. On multiple occasions she’s had to walk away from her desk to stop herself from doing something. She did her job, she reminds herself. Skyhold Quarterly has published a succinct and charming account of a community fundraiser, but it still doesn’t sit right with Noelle. Life will go on, but she can’t shake the feeling she should have done something. She bites on the end of her pen.

“Ritts.” She says, slowly. The woman sits across from Noelle’s desk, resting her forearms on Noelle’s desk. In between them is Ritt’s review of the newest Cary Grant film. “I’m not suggesting I disagree, but do you think you can find a better word to describe Cary Grant than “sensual”?”

Ritts sighs. “Ellandra already vetoed “radiating sex-appeal”, so this was already toned down. What’s wrong with ‘sensual’?”

“It may be a little too erotic for our general readers.”

Ritts frowns. “Cary Grant is erotic.”

Noelle groans. “Not the point, Ritts.”

Why this is the particular hill Ritts has decided to die on is beyond Noelle. Sighing, Noelle runs her hand through her hair. It’s only Tuesday, there’s still time for revisions tomorrow, so this isn’t an issue that needs to be solved right away. “Look.” Noelle frowns. “Ritts, can’t you try something like ‘handsome’?”

“It really undersells it.” Ritts doesn’t look pleased, she shrugs half-heartedly.

Lucky for Noelle, her phone rings, and she is spared from an inevitable long argument on Cary Grant’s looks. She apologies to Ritts as she picks up the receiver. As Ritts starts picking up her papers, Cassandra spins her chair around and whispers something to Ritts. Though her tone is low, Noelle still picks up on the words “Cary Grant” and “appealing”.

“Skyhold Quarterly, Noelle Trevelyan speaking.”

Ritts moves back to her own desk, and Cassandra swivels back around. At the first, there’s just the sound of clamour. People talking, things rattling. Where on Earth is this call coming from? “Hello?”

“Oh, hey!” A booming voice finally answers. “This is.” There’s a pause. The voice sounds terribly familiar, but Noelle just can’t place it. “It’s Bull. Like. The Iron Bull. Dorian’s…friend. We met a while ago at the-”

“I remember.” Why is calling here? Friend is an interesting choice of wording, really. They’d danced together, sure, and Dorian appears to trust him. But Bull says it carefully. As if he isn’t sure or he’s hiding something. There are a number of questions Noelle could ask. Why are you calling? Simply a brusque “what?”, or a “how do you do?”, but what Noelle winds up asking is a hurried: “Is Dorian alright?”

Because really, all they have in common is Dorian. The leader of the Chargers isn’t about to go calling random people just to chat.

Bull chuckles. “Yeah, Dorian’s fine.” Noelle relaxes a bit. “We had a bit of a late night and I just dropped him off at home.He’s actually the reason why I’m calling though. Do you think you can keep him busy tomorrow? The Chargers have a business meeting, and there’s a good chance things are going to go south fast. If Dorian finds out, he’s going to insist on coming. I would prefer if that didn’t happen.” There’s an edge to Bull’s voice.

Noelle hardly hesitates. “Yes, I can do that.” Anything to keep Dorian safe. It’s not as if Noelle had any particular plans, unless eating a small pizza in her pajamas counts for much.

“Okay, good. That’s…really good.” Bull sounds relieved.

Noelle isn’t sure what else to say to him, and Bull is clearly suffering from the same predicament. There’s a huff from Noelle, a chuckle from Bull, and then silence again. A phone rings in the distance. Someone else in the office is coughing is coughing, while Rylen flirts with one of the copy girls by the break room door. His fingers are black with printer ink.

“Good talk.” Bull says, finally. “And, Ms. Trevelyan, thank you.”

Dorian Pavus is no fool.

Foolhardy, yes, absolutely, but pulling the wool over his eyes is a whole other beast entirely. Luckily, Noelle is no stranger to schemes. Instead of trying to find the right adjective to describe Cary Grant, Noelle starts jotting out reasons to invite Dorian over. It’s a short lived process. Her first idea involves too many lies, and in actuality could just as easily become the plot of a screwball romantic comedy. She’d lie, you see, and tell Dorian she was going on a date and needed fashion advice. And a date is a Big Deal, since Noelle probably hasn’t been on a proper one since ‘45, and even that was a bust. However, now Noelle’s list of eligible men is pretty small. She could say it’s Varric. That Dorian would catch right away. More charming women have tried and failed to capture Varric’s heart, and still he only ever seems to admit to loving his lucky pen, nicknamed Bianca.

Which is absurd.

There’s Rylen, sure, but then the office gossip would be weird for everyone. It’s not like Cullen is only man left, but it’d probably make the most sense. Dorian already thinks Noelle is enamored with him. And at that point in a romantic comedy, she’d have to coerce Cullen to actually go on a date to make the ruse more convincing. They’d wind up dancing, and he’d say something charming, and there would a strangely soft-focused close up as they stared into each others eyes.

Noelle stops her fantasy there. Unfortunately, try as she might, shaking her head doesn’t clear away the thoughts. That’s ridiculous. To fantasize about her boss like that. Despite herself, she casts a quick glance towards Cullen’s office. For once, the blinds are open and Cullen stands in the doorway. He leans against the frame and chats with Dennet. There’s a smile tugging at Cullen’s lips.

Cullen tilts his head, looking about the room, and his gaze finally settles on Noelle. She tries to make it look as if she hadn’t already been staring at him. She nods, slightly, in a “just noticed you” kind of way. Cullen’s smile widens. He returns the nod and tosses in a little hand wave.

Noelle turns back to her desk, sharply. Absolutely no fake date. Noelle forbids herself from even continuing to imagine it. It’s juvenile and absurd. That idea would excite Dorian the most, however. He’d agree in a giddy heartbeat.

Noelle turns back to her desk, sharply. Absolutely no fake date. Noelle forbids herself from even continuing to imagine it. It’s juvenile and absurd. That idea would excite Drian the most, however. He’d agree in a giddy heartbeat.  
Noelle fidgets with her pen and focuses her attention her desk (and very much not on Cullen). One of these days she’ll need to reorganize her work space. Jumbled notes and papers lie around the desk, as well as yesterdays coffee cup and a handful of paper clips. The typewriter is the neatest thing she has. It’s also one of the more expensive. Type A-Minrathous Model. Sleek teal, harder to jam, and easier keys. It’s been a godsend. Before this beauty, she’d used an old 1930’s model that jammed every other word and keys that you had to shove down to type. Real pain in the ass.The most non-serious, no-repercussions scheme she can think of is surprisingly simple.

Despite her impatience she waits until noon to call. Given the chance, Dorian will never be up before eleven. But even when Noelle calls at 12:10, Dorian sounds groggy when he answers. His perfunctory Dorian Pavus speaking is interrupted by a loud yawn.

“Dorian, hey. Late night?”

“Something like that. What’s going on? I presume you didn’t call just because you missed my voice?”

“Oh, that was definitely a part of it. Actually, I need a bit of a favour if you’re not too busy tonight. My mother, bless her heart, has decided that she’d really like to come see her favourite daughter and Lord knows my place is not ‘mother approved’.” Noelle trails off. Absently, she twirls the phone cord around her index finger.

Thank goodness for Dorian, because before Noelle can even finish, he’s asking, “What time do you need me there?”

 

 

 

Dorian is late.

Which is one of those - of course he is - kind of things. Dorian Pavus is not a timely man. But then, if his stories of Tevinter life are to be believed, being late is a show of power. The later you are the more important you are, and thus the less you care about the schedules of your lessers. It’s a bit of a nasty habit to keep. Noelle flexes her toes. Her skirt folds back toward her waist, and Noelle stares at her stockings with a pensive frown. There’s a nice thin run right over the knee, and another on her left thigh. She’s never been skilled with a needle. If this keeps up she’ll actually have to go out and buy more soon.

Noelle is lying on her couch, feet draped over the back and head tipped towards the floor. In order to make this ruse plausible, Noelle has spent the past twenty minutes throwing shit all over her apartment, and leaving cups with small bits of brandy and lipstick smudges on the rims in odd places. There’s one under her coffee table, covered by a white brasserie. Any other man, she would be embarrassed. A brasserie is not the kind of thing you leave lying around for anyone to see. Another braisserie is tossed, inexplicably, over the radio. It’s strap is caught over one of the dials; a feat Noelle is rather proud of. She’s also scattered some of her hair rollers about the house. A few in the couch cushion, one on her tiny kitchen table, a few around the bathroom. On a typical morning she does putter around the apartment when getting ready. It is not wildly unbelievable that she’d leave her rollers around. 

  
The knock at her door is a thrilling reprieve from thoughts about darning tights and shopping. Noelle hurries to the door to allow Dorian inside, and is immediately met with a frown as Dorian takes in the state of her apartment.

Noelle leans back against the side of the door, hand over the doorknob. Despite herself, she actually feels briefly embarrassed. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dorian says. Snow dusts his hair and coat, and he brushes the snow away with a dismissive sigh. “You know me, always willing to help the less fortunate.”

“You and your kind words. Can I get you something to drink?”

Dorian tosses a heavy briefcase onto Noelle’s couch, and it lands with a thud. “I’d love something.”

The kitchen is probably the cleanest area of the apartment. Which makes sense, since Noelle hardly spends any time in it. As she grabs two cups from the cupboard, she asks: “I have brandy, water, and more brandy. What’ll it be?” Naturally, she knows what the answer will be, and she’s grabbed the almost empty bottle of brandy before Dorian can answer. “Brandy, please.”

It’s a familiar scene, Dorian and Noelle drinking by her kitchen table. Recently it’s been less common, but not too long ago she and Dorian would drink brandy (or rye, or whatever else Noelle had on hand) and talk about work. Dorian could suggest a new angle for something, Noelle a better way of phrasing something. Cassandra used to join them too. Cassandra never got quite as drunk as she and Dorian did. Or drunk at all, actually. Normally she’d drink coffee.

Noelle misses it. They clacking of their typewriters, the faint hum of the radio (which Dorian wanted on, but Cassandra insisted was a nuisance), and the sound of Cassandra’s disappointed sighs. Maybe she should host a poker night.

“What prompted your mother to come out?” Dorian asks. His lips purse disapprovingly. Comparatively, at least with Dorian’s parents, Noelle was blessed. However, that does not mean Noelle and her mother get along. Their “mother-daughter” bond had stopped when Noelle was twelve, when Noelle had apparently destroyed her mother’s best friends marriage by pointing out an expensive necklace in front of her husband. Not long before, Noelle had overheard her mother complaining to her father that “Lord knows I love Esther, but we’re all struggling. I’d rather not hear about how they’re struggling financially when we are too. Speaking of, honey, has your brother sold his yacht yet?”  
So it didn’t make sense that Esther had on a brand new sparkling necklace (from Kays, of all things). Apparently this had been the final tip off for Ewan that his wife had been stepping out on him. After that point things had all gone downhill.

Noelle shrugs. “Not sure, last time she wrote me she was out visiting Max and Josie. I was kind of hoping this travel bug she’d caught wouldn’t bring her back ‘round for a while yet.”

There’s this dark little blip in her family history. Much, she expects, like every other family in the war. Max and her father had to fight, which was stressful for both Noelle and her mother, and they’d coped in drastically different ways. Noelle had gotten a job and gone to London. Noelle’s mother, on the other hand, had locked herself away in the family estate for far too long. The whole place had been outfitted with blackout curtains. So, severla ears of paranoia later Max comes home engaged to the most lovely Antivan woman Noelle has ever met, and her father came home changed. Domestic life, evidently, was not for him. He’d lasted two months before vanishing into the night. This had ld into a second retreat into the estate for Mrs. Trevelyan, until sometime three years ago she’d had a change of heart. Somewhere along the line she’d gotten bit by the travel bug, and off she’d gone. There’s a small collection of postcards tucked away in Noelle’s dresser from all over the world.

In reality, the last she and Max had spoken their mother had been off to Saskatoon.

Neither of them are entirely sure why she chose to go there.

Dorian seems to buy this, and grimaces. “Lord help me, it’s a blessing my parents would never set foot in America.”

“They still think it’s a den of sin?”

Dorian snorts. “Not that I’ve spoken to them recently, but I can’t think of anything that would change their minds. Mind you, from the look of your place, it’d really cement it for them. Seriously, what the hell have you doing?” He shakes his head. “Even for you this is bad.”

Noelle has to stop the beam of pride. To cover it, she rubs a hand over her face and sighs. “Times like this I miss having a maid.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

God Bless Dorian, the absolute and only person Noelle can say that too and expect full understanding.

 

 

Cleaning up Noelle’s mess takes far longer than the act of making the mess did, and by the time Dorian and Noelle flop down on her couch it’s nearing 10. Dorian rummages his briefcase while they sit, and Noelle leans her head back to rest against the back of the couch. Absently, he starts tossing book after book onto the empty space between them. They land with heavy thumps. It takes two or three before Noelle actually bothers to look. The most recent is one of Varric’s books, the pages clearly dog-eared. Noelle can hazard a safe guess it comes from the library of one Cassandra Penteghast. The next book Dorian tosses onto the pile is thicker. It’s a deep blue, missing the dustjacket, but embossed gold letters spell out: ‘ _Lyrium: It’s Effects and It’s Dangers_ ’.

“Doing your homework, Pavus?” Noelle asks. She picks up the book and flips through the pages. She doesn’t stop to read any of them, and barely pays attention to the chapter titles she sees.

“Something like that.” Dorian appears to have found the book he was looking for. It doesn’t look as if he’s paying much attention to Noelle. Instead, he licks his thumb and starts turning pages. “I figured since I’m around the stuff so often, and since it’s done quite a number on people I am almost fond of, it couldn’t hurt.” Dorian shrugs as if the answer was obvious. To an extent it was, but Noelle still frowns. She knows how Dorian talks. “Almost fond of” is code for “close friends”, which Dorian does not have many of. And Noelle is fairly certain she knows all of them too. It isn’t a hard list to run through. Maybe the Iron Bull used lyrium, Noelle wouldn’t know. Varric definitely has never, and will never, based on how he talks about his brother. Cassandra is also an immediate no. Sera. Well. Sera is iffy. Because Noelle has no doubt Sera over-imbues many substances (mostly booze), but Noelle is also fairly certain Sera isn’t quite the type to try something so dangerous. Almost absently, Noelle flips through the book again and finds the section “Symptoms and Quitting”. Very very quickly it begins to look familiar.

_Those brave enough (or foolhardy enough) to try and stop using lyrium at the drop of the hat can experience a variety of symptoms. Some are milder than others, while the more serious can result in death. Some of the milder symptoms include: tremors, nausea, insomnia, irritability, while more serious cases can lead to sensations of panic or hallucinations. Some are said to experience heart palpitations as well._

Noelle is struck by the memory of Cullen in Crestwood, fumbling with a tie. Her stomach does an unpleasant flip. “Dorian.”

“Yes?”

“Is this person you’re ‘almost fond of’ Cullen?”

Dorian doesn’t actually answer, but the way he jerks his gaze away from his book only to stare resignedly at the wall basically confirms it.

“Noelle-”

“Dorian, you have maybe three friends.” Noelle cocks her head to the side. “Considering I know it’s not myself, or Cassandra, it’s not a hard list to narrow down.”

Dorian groans. “Fuck.”

Noelle waits, expectantly, for Dorian to elaborate.

“If I said yes,” Dorian says cautiously, “Are you going to pry for more? Because I’m really not the person you should be having this conversation with.”

Of course, that’s all but a yes. Noelle doesn’t respond. Part of her feels almost bad for not knowing, as if she should have picked up the signs sooner. But it’s only really been recently that they’ve started properly talking. And even then it’s hardly to the point where “hey I’m struggling with a lyrium addiction” would come up at all.

When Noelle winds up never answering, Dorian slowly continues: “He quit, Noelle. Or. Is trying too. Christ, how did I just let that slip out? You plied with me brandy for my secrets, didn’t you?”

Neither of them laugh.

“I’m not going to mention anything,” Noelle assures him. After another pause she wiggles the book. “Is it alright if I take a look through this?”

Dorian nods. “Of course. Just, no more than a day or two, I’ve already wracked up quite the late fees at the library.”

“Thanks.”

For the next hour or so, they read in relative silence. Dorian is reading a whopping full history of lyrium, and is so enraptured by the book he keeps "hmm"-ing and "ahh"-ing at interesting bits. Unfortunately, Noelle’s book isn’t a particularly fun sort of interesting. At least, not the sort that prompts an out-loud response to it. A large portion of the book is slightly baffling medical jargon that Noelle finds frankly indecipherable. What she's left doing, then, is reading and rereading the few sections that make any sort of sense to her. 

  
_The trouble with lyrium addiction is that quite often the symptoms of withdrawal are worse than continuing to take the drug. The symptoms mentioned earlier are unpleasant, yes, but there is still worse. Depending on the length of the addiction and the character of the addict, the withdrawal symptoms can last some time or get worse. In a study of lyrium addicts at the Imperial Hospital in London showed that many soldiers who had used lyrium for a period of a year or longer often experienced worsening symptoms over the 16-month span of the study. Of these, only two showed signs of recovering at the end of the study. The rest had either remained or the same for some time or found their mental state degenerating. Approximately 3/4 of the patients experienced mild-severe memory loss, the worst of the cases culminating in what appears to a state similar to dementia. These patients had difficulty not just recalling recent events (such as things told to them just moments earlier) to even forgetting important moments from their pasts (such as their own spouses, or children). A select few forgot even their own names. The milder of these cases seemed to grapple with short term memory, and had trouble retaining new information but are able to recall memories from their past. Unfortunately, some of these men appear to have constructed false memories or altered their current ones._

_Recovering from an addiction of this sort does not look promising, unfortunately. Few seem to ever recover completely. Given that the study of lyrium’s effects on humans is relatively new, it will take more time to truly understand the long term affects on the substance. For now it is important that more regulations and policies are put in place regarding distribution of the substance._

Noelle closes the book and sighs. Probably not the best ‘before bed’ choice of reading. And sure enough, once Dorian leaves and Noelle has her hair in rollers and is in bed, she winds up staring at the ceiling and letting worry knaw away at her.

It's almost made worse by the fact there is so little Noelle can do about it. She is not one to simply sit on information and do nothing, and honestly the Crestwood situation is still driving her mad, so she has a lot of trouble letting the lyirum addiction go. But, she tells herself that when (if) Cullen wants to tell her, he will, and tries to resign herself to that.

  
So when she turns up at work Wednesday morning she doesn’t mention anything. She does make sure to smile at Cullen and ask how he's doing, but after that she heads straight to her desk. An unusual sight is waiting for her. On her desk is a small bouquet of flowers in a glass vase; an assortment of lady slippers and daffodils, arranged nicely and tied together with a shimmery yellow ribbon. Noelle tries to stifle a surprised gasp. Getting flowers in winter isn't exactly easy, or expensive, and Noelle can't quite figure out who exactly would leave flowers for her. Her question is answered when she spots a small card lying in front of the vase. The thick cardstock is folded, and the inside simply reads: 

  
_Thanks - I.B._

While not particularly subtle, the gesture is appreciated.

Across the room, Noelle spots Cullen eyeing up the flowers with a curious little frown. Directly in front of her, Cassandra is doing the same, but Cassandra's scrutiny bothers Noelle less. The note is very carefully torn up and discarded, lest Dorian find it and have questions, and the flowers go home with Noelle at the end of the day.

Thanks to Dorian and his book, Noelle becomes very aware of the way Cullen flinches at the slamming of doors and the clattering of mugs and pens over the office floor, and of the way his expression seems to fall each time he's responsible. There are days where Cullen slams down the telephone a little harder than needed, or knocks his cup over, and he stares despondently at some invisible point in the air. Each time Noelle wants to tell him things will be okay.

  
But she can't, so she doesn't, and she tries to make up for it in little things. When she leaves his office, she makes sure to ease the door shut, she offers to buy him coffee when she goes to the Red Jenny (mostly he says no, but he seems to appreciate the gesture), and when he seems really tired Noelle doesn't ask and goes to buy it anyway. Varric, of course, picks up on this quickly enough, and one day when Cullen is half asleep at his desk and Noelle is leaving for the Red Jenny, he pipes up.  
"Hey, Pinky, if you're going for coffee mind bringing me back some?" With this smug gring that gives Noelle the impression he knows exactly what he's doing.

Begrudgingly, Noelle huffs and agrees.

And that's how Noelle becomes responsible for office coffee runs.

Not long after, Cassandra starts joining Noelle on her coffee trips, and though Cassandra doesn’t appear to totally be over Noelle’s antics she’s at least trying. Cassandra regales her with all manner of stories of suspicious activities; the head of the Seekers being spotted in odd places, missing funds, alleged government bribes, and, craziest of all, accusations that they had some part to play for the Axis during the war. It just about writes itself. Noelle can’t help the small twinge of envy. Though she didn’t exactly have a deadline in mind for Leliana’s response, the total silence has been disheartening.

Noelle snorts a laugh as Cassandra talks. They’re trudging through the mid-March slush from the Red Jenny with the coffee cups keeping their hands warm. “I told you they were up to something!”

“You told me they were drug trafficking,” Cassandra shoots back. “Though, at this point, I would hardly be surprised if they were.”

“Sounds like quite the thread you’re unraveling,” Noelle says, and tries to keep the jealousy from her voice.

Cassandra hums in agreement. “Quite. It’s amazing they’ve kept this so well hidden for so long.”

“Well, I guess if you’re rich and old you can hide all sorts of secrets.” Noelle shrugs. Growing up, there was a family in the area whose husband had been accused of murdering a servant. It had been a long, dreary affair, and the cops had even turned up at the Trevelyan estate to ask questions. The theory that Noelle had been told (see: overheard her parents talking in the dining room) was that the husband was having an affair with the family maid and when she threatened blackmail, he killed her to solve the problem. Of course, ultimately, it was never more than hearsay because, surprise surprise, the husband took the police chief golfing one afternoon and the whole thing sorted itself right out.

Or, sorted itself into a cold case file and hasn't been touched since.

  
Still, in the grand scheme of things, that family was poor compared to the wealth of the Seekers. Cassandra may have uncovered a mass conspiracy.

Lucky bastard.

“Don’t we have copy boys for this?” Noelle complains as she tries to juggle holding cups of coffee and climbing the stairs to the office. Some coffee sloshes over the side and sting her hands.

“Surely we do,” Cassandra says, “But I believe Varric keeps them quite busy.”

“ _Varric_?” Noelle scoffs. “What does he need copy boys for? He hardly works as it is.”

“While you were in the hospital he had three of them dropping watermelons off of the roof of the building. Cullen tried to ask him about it and he tried to convince us it was for ‘research’.” Cassandra sounds skeptical.

It wouldn’t be the first of Varric’s odd stunts. Varric’s life appears to be a series of odd stunts, each seemingly more impractical than the last. There was a particularly hot day last summer when Noelle had found Varric and Sera outside, trying to fry an egg on the pavement. So the watermelon thing comes as little surprise to Noelle.

Noelle delivers the coffees around the office: straight black for Rylen who has ink covered hands and arguing with Cullen about getting a new typeface, also black for Cullen who smiles wanly at Noelle, a splash of milk and two sugars for Varric who is doing approximately nothing, five sugars for Ritts who is still talking about Cary Grant. Then she sits back down at her desk and tries to figure out which evening show she is going to review that night.

Despite her best efforts, she can’t stop her thoughts from wandering. And slowly, as April draws nearer and nearer, Noelle’s thoughts keep drifting back to Crestwood. With no news from Leliana, there’s an overwhelming feeling of guilt bubbling up in Noelle’s stomach that leaves Noelle feeling like she’s made a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I almost didn't get this done, there's a big theater thing going on where I live and I'm trying to see ALL THE PLAYS and it's been nuts.
> 
> And this is entirely unrelated, but if any of y'all have the time, definitely go check out Dean Martin's The Middle Of The Night Is My Crying Time. It's my favourite Dean Martin song and it's basically a 1963 equivalent of an emo-band breakup song.
> 
> Oh! And if any of you folks want to talk to me about literally anything (history, theater, something weird that happened to you on public transit, etc.) just shoot me a message on my tumblr! The link is in my bio.


	11. Chapter 11

**_The Golden City_**  
**_April 2nd, 1947_**

  
_Note To Readers,_  
_Hello, and thank you for picking up the very first issue of The Golden City, which is sure to be one of New York’s finest papers. Each subsequent issue will be printed and up for sale each Thursday at 6 a.m., a full hour and a half earlier than that other newspaper. We will endevour to give our readers an honest, and accurate account of events, and we offer a guarentee of satisfication. If you find you are not satisified with the quality of this paper, please write to The Golden City’s editor: Cory Fius. Below you will find our address._

_Best, the staff of The Golden City_

 

“Did I make the right choice?” Noelle asks.

She looks manic. She knows it. There’s really no way not too, barging into Cullen’s office on three hours sleep with bags under her eyes and a note of desperation in her tone.

Cullen evidently picks up on this quickly enough (after he’s done looking startled at the unexpected entrance). He frowns, and he raises an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“The right choice,” Noelle says, again. “Did I make it?”

This clarifies approximately nothing. Cullen stares at her blankly.

Noelle gestures vaguely. For a moment, her brain sort of stalls. She knows what she’s trying to say but in this sleepless state the words are just beyond her grasp. Fuck, she should have had a cup of coffee or something before this. Gotten herself together first. Not just rolled out of bed in a moral panic and rushed to the office. Noelle lets out a frustrated breath. Cullen is staring at her as if she’s lost her damn mind.

There’s a pause. Cullen appears to be thinking his words over seriously. Noelle’s stomach starts preemptively tying itself into guilty knots.

“Noelle,” Cullen says slowly. “There isn’t an easy answer here.”

Which, frankly, isn’t an actual answer, and his tone has this little note of the pity that worries Noelle.

“Oh my God.” Noelle frowns. “You do, don’t you? You think I did the wrong thing.” As Noelle’s pitch gets almost embarrassingly upset, she finds herself starting to pace. Not the full length of the room, mind, just sort of turning back and forth in a very frantic way. “That I should have stepped in, not hidden it, that-” So lost in worry, Noelle hadn’t even noticed Cullen rise from his desk, but she trails off into silence as he places a hand on her shoulder.

“Noelle,” Cullen says simply, “Breathe.”

She takes a deep breath.

“Good.”

Noelle tries to not look too abashed as Cullen looks her up-and-down. 

“I definitely don’t think you made the wrong choice. I think that you made a strategic one. A chance to witness the Empress of Orlais is a once in a lifetime thing.”

“But what if it doesn’t pan out, Cullen? What if I kept quiet for nothing?”

Cullen gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Noelle would be able to tell herself that this was a work pep-talk if Cullen wasn’t looking at her quite so fondly. “Be patient. Lord knows getting anything done with Orleasians takes time.” Cullen huffs a low, breathy laugh before continuing. “And, at this point, we don’t know if you writing about the situation in Crestwood would have helped things. Right now, Dedrich still has a chance to make things right on his own, yes?”

Noelle takes another deep breath and nods. “I. I suppose.” Being forced to stand still has calmed her done some, and she can see where Cullen is coming from.

“Good. How long has this been troubling you? You look-” Cullen pauses, and this says everything. Off the top her head, Noelle would say she could look: a fright, a mess, like a fucking train wreck. Surely Cullen sees this too, and surely he’s avoiding saying it out of politeness. “Haggard.”

Not a good word to settle on.

“Since we left Crestwood, frankly. I was hoping Leliana would get some word to us sooner. Waiting is a little unbearable. And. Well. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” Noelle offers a self-conscious shrug.

“Evidently.” Cullen smiles. “Do you have plans? That is, I mean to say, if you’re not otherwise occupied would you like.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck. “Would you want to come with me to get coffee?”

He looks so nervous, Noelle can’t help but smile. “Cullen, I would like that very much.”

Cullen and Noelle enter the Red Jenny at the peak of their mid-day rush. All but one booth is occupied, and the line at the till extends to the center of the restaurant, and the sound of conversation forms a low hum throughout the restaurant. The sounds of clanking, clattering, and shouting from the kitchen add a small element of chaos to what may have otherwise been a quaint diner scene.

The amount of noise allows Noelle to speak to Cullen with less fear of the waitresses overhearing. It isn’t as if Noelle intends to spill her guts to Cullen in the line, but she does at least mention exactly how long the Crestwood situation has been troubling her.

"It just feels wrong, you know?" Noelle explains as they move up in line. "Like I'm lying by omission and it makes me a bad journalist."

  
Cullen frowns. "The Quarterly started because I wasn't fond of the way so many papers twisted stories to fit some sort of 'bigger picture'. Changing the story to fit an agenda is bad journalism. Avoiding a story for a better story later on doesn't fall into that category. Quite honestly, The Quarterly could use the boost an article about the Empress of Orlais would give us. We're already falling behind technologically, some of the bigger papers have photograph wire services now. It’d do us good to garner some interest, you know? And." Cullen casts a furtive look about the room. "I haven't told anyone in the office yet but Cory's started a new paper. First issue launched this morning."

"Cory?" Noelle asks, incredulously. "Didn't he learn his lesson last time?"

"Apparently not.” Cullen shakes his head grimly. His attention shifts as they approach the till.

“Oh, excuse me.” Cullen steps up to the counter. “One black coffee please, and-” He turns, cocking his head towards Noelle, “What do you usually get?”

“Cullen, you don’t need to get me-”

“I insist.”

Flushing, Noelle allows Cullen to buy her coffee. Sera, busy busing tables, only has time to give Noelle a curious look as she notices the transaction but that look is more than enough to let Noelle she’ll be hearing about it later. Cullen doesn’t mention Cory, or The Golden City, until they’re both outside again. The last time Cory Fius had started a paper, the Quarterly had nearly gone under. It didn’t help matters that Cory is not a particularly honourable man. Sleezy, propagandist, and more than willing to do whatever it takes to get the upper hand. Even if that meant filing false police reports to hold back the Quarterly’s journalists, or managing to get Noelle and Cassandra blacklisted from City Hall for several weeks.

“Cory isn’t holding back this time, I fear,” Cullen says. His mouth is set in a narrow line. “He already managed to get a few insults in at the Quarterly today.”

“So we need a story they wouldn’t have a chance to scoop, then.”

“Exactly.”

“So we need Celene,” Noelle says. She knows it’s true, but she wants to hear Cullen say it.

“I’m afraid so. As it is, I suppose I may need to speak to Varric about doing something about this whole Cory problem. He is much better at this than I am.”

Noelle kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk. “Didn’t Varric offer to help last time? I’m almost positive I remember you saying that we were ‘above that’?”

Cullen grimaces. “I recall. And I also recall almost losing the Quarterly from it. I believe it’s time I learned from my mistakes, don’t you?” He casts one sidelong glance at Noelle before continuing with a small, wry smile. “Besides, I’m not suggesting we try and burn down the The Golden City’s offices or anything. I’m just suggesting that Varric slips them a bad tip every now and then.”

 

Once they return to the Quarterly, Noelle joins Cullen in his office to take a look at the first issue of The Golden City. True to Cullen’s words, there are many thinly veiled jabs at “The other paper”. There is little chance the City refers to a paper other than the Quarterly. The mention of a “gimmicky singles column” cinches it for Noelle. Of all the underhanded things. For as long as the Quarterly’s been around, they’ve avoided saying a bad word about any other paper. And in charges The Golden City, guns blazing.

Noelle leans against Cullen’s desk as she reads, periodically peaking over the top of the paper to peer at Cullen. He’s slouched down in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and sipping his coffee.

Noelle folds the paper. “Cullen. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Cullen waves her question off. “Just…frustrated. And trying to figure out how to best tell everyone about Cory’s newest venture.”

“A well-earned headache indeed.”

Cullen hums in agreement.

After only the briefest moment of deliberation, Noelle begins a line of questioning she knows she probably shouldn’t. “But. Generally though, are you feeling alright? You seemed very out of sorts in Crestwood, I was worried.”

“Well.” Cullen becomes very fixated on the ground. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. I was just a little under the weather in Crestwood, nothing to be worried about.”

“Of course.”

Cullen seems flustered enough now, so Noelle lets the matter drop.

Or she tries too, and fails, because the next thing she knows she’s placing the paper down on Cullen’s desk and moving close enough than her knee bumps into his. “But if you aren’t fine, Cullen, if you ever need anything, you can come to me. I’m here for you.”

“I-uh. Thank you.” Cullen clears his throat, and flushes a bright red. “Now. Erm. I suppose I should go break the bad news.”

The bad news spreads through the Quarterly like a plague. Suddenly the mood becomes gloomier, more urgent. It isn’t as if the Quarterly was anywhere close being to a major paper, but The Golden City came close to running them out of the game last time, and it’s something no wants to happen again. Cassandra spends three days frantically typing up everything she has on the Seekers, printing her big expose on their less-than-legal activities just two weeks after The Golden City begins publishing. Cullen holes up in his office, often with Varric, coming up with plans to hinder the City’s success. With his new role as Number 1 Golden City opponent, Varric brings in other writers to the serial column. For the most part, the new stories are recieved warmly, but Cassandra takes to bitterly complaining about the rushed ending to Varric’s tale. Noelle, Ellandra, and Ritts keep doing what they can (which, admittedly, isn’t much), but Noelle tries to use whatever clout she has to get them entrance to the more prestigious shows.

There is a particularly dark stretch where Cullen spends several days alone in his office trying to negotiate the price to get wire photographs. There was lots of slamming things those few days. It hardly helped that evidently word had gotten round to the City that the Quarterly was after the new technology and tipped off several wire companies that the "Quarterly was unreliable" or some variation thereof.

Naturally, things to begin to slow down. Levity returns, despite the ever present threat of the City beating them to a story. A copy of the Golden City hangs on the wall and serves as a well-used dartboard on those days, and Varric makes use of his many connections to send the City's top journalists after a fake "cheese heist" as payback.

There is a long moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Should - erm, should someone go check on him?” Noelle isn’t sure she can remember a day when Cullen didn’t show up to work.

“I was intending to go on my lunch break,” Cassandra replies. “Once I’m done replying to this stack of rather angry letters. Certain people didn’t take too kindly to my article on the Seekers.”

“I can go,” Noelle says too quickly. “That is. If you’re busy, I don’t mind.”

“Mhmm.” Cassandra arches an eyebrow. “If you’re sure. I’m perfectly capable of checking on him myself. Unless, that is, there’s something going on between you two I should know about?”

Noelle’s cheeks start to burn. “No! I mean, no, I’m just...concerned, and I don’t want you to fall behind on your work, that’s all.”

“Of course.” Cassandra seems skeptical. However disbelieving she may be, Cassandra seems to swallow it down. “You’ll let me know how he’s doing, yes? I’m sure he’ll tell me I’m worrying over nothing, but still.”

“I will.”

Armed with nothing but Cullen’s address written on a scrap piece of paper, Noelle rides the bus to Cullen’s apartment building. In the daytime the neighbourhood looks even dingier than it had the evening she returned from Crestwood. Lots of crumbling brick buildings, and graffiti in the alleys. One of the windows on the main floor of Cullen’s place has been boarded up. It’s, frankly, a little discouraging. Once inside the first thing Noelle faces is the staircase, which faces the front door. The tiled lobby floor serves as an landing for the stairs, with one staircase going up, and another going to the basement. Doors to the left, and right, would evidently lead off to the main floor apartments. Noelle doesn’t get the chance to find out, according to Cassandra Cullen lives on the forth floor. So she makes the trek up the old creaky staircase until she finds herself standing in a dimly lit hallway. The carpeted floor is old, stained in spots, and and clearly in need of a good vacuum. Almost all of the lightbulbs in the hallway have burned out as well, making the whole thing look somewhat frightening.

Noelle is having the hardest time wrapping her head around the fact that Cullen lives here.

There’s little sound coming from Cullen’s apartment. Or, anywhere in the hall at all. The silence is almost eerie. After a moment’s trepidation, Noelle swallows down her nerves and knocks once. There is silence, followed by a crashing sound. Then, silence again.

“Cullen?” Noelle ventures. When there is no response, Noelle tries to the doorknob. It’s a breach of privacy, she knows, but she can’t shake the feeling something is wrong. The side-effects of quitting lyrium have been ringing like little alarms in Noelle’s head. The door is locked, and the knob alarmingly loud. She tightens her grip on the doorknob, as if that will soften the sound. If Cullen is in there and even vaguely alert it is going to be very obvious Noelle tried to just walk on in.

“Cullen, is everything alright?” She asks again, as if really demonstrating she’s concerned will forgive the attempted breach of privacy. This time, her question earns a response.

First, she feels the doorknob twitch. Just once. Like someone is resting their hand on it. A light thud follows, as if something hits the door. “Cullen?”

“Everything is fine,” Cullen says in a tone that isn’t remotely close to fine. It’s shaky, pitched, and off-keel enough that it dampens the relief Noelle feels at hearing his voice.

“Are you-”

“Yes.” Cullen cuts her off. Though he’s speaking softly, his voice carries through the door as if he’s standing right up against it. Noelle takes a step closer on her side reflexively. “Please.” Cullen says. “I just. You need to go.”

Noelle takes a deep breath. It’s apparent, from tone alone, that this isn’t one of those “I’m telling you to leave but I don’t want you to go” situations, and objectively Noelle realizes she should listen to him. However, he sounds terrible and it’s making Noelle’s chest ache, and she’d give anything to make that stop. So she tries one last time. “Do you-”

“Please.” Cullen repeats, sharply. There is a genuine, heartbreaking note of desperation in his tone and Noelle feels some heat brimming in her eyes. Exhaling heavily, she tilts her head forward to rest her head against the door. “Noelle. I can’t, I can’t do this right now.”

Noelle swallows, once, and turns to leave. But before she can even turn to the door she decides on one last thing. Using the wall as a makeshift surface, she jots her number down on the back of an old receipt and slips it under the door. Distantly, she realizes it may be a bit embarrassing if Cullen bothers to check the receipt and realizes it’s from the grocery store and for a jar of pickles and three bananas. If a little embarrassment is the trade off, Noelle doesn’t mind making it.

“Cullen, if you need something - anything at all, just give me a call.”

This time, she intends to genuinly leave. But when she turns, she’s stopped by the sight of Garret Hawke leaning in the doorway next to Cullen’s. She has to stifle a scream at the sight of him. Not only is she not expecting to see anyone, Garret’s scantily dressed - wearing only his underwear and a loose and untied housecoat. Noelle quickly flushes and averts her eyes. Unlike Cassandra, she’s never really been all that interested in seeing more of Garret.

“Hey,” Garret says. His voice is unusually quiet. Noelle has always known him to be the loudest person in the room, but he’s currently speaking like he doesn’t want to be overheard. “My eyes are up here.” Noelle catches the basic motion of Garret pointing to his eyes, and regretfully follows it. For once, his grin is only a little wry. Not big, not cocky. Unusual, for Hawke. “Is Curly doing okay?”

Noelle moves closer to Garret. She isn’t sure if Cullen is still by the door, but surely he wouldn’t want to overhear her speaking to Hawke about his state. “I’m not sure,” Noelle answers honestly. “I hope so.”

“For what it’s worth, I do too.” For a startling moment, Noelle suspects Garret may be being sincere. Then he ruins it. “If only because his regular sleeptalking is hardly bearable. When he’s like this-” Garret gestures to Cullen’s door and shudders, “Well. When he’s like this I try to sleep at a friends place.”

Noelle chooses to ignore the more worrying part of that sentence. “Cullen talks in his sleep?”

“Constantly.” Garret gives a beleaguered roll of his eyes. “Trust me, it sounds endearing, I know, but the appeal is lost after several days.”

Noelle musters up a small smile. Garret smiles back.

“Curly’ll be fine,” Garret says. “He’s been through a hell of a lot worse than this.” Garret’s reassuring tone s somewhat ruined by his casual wink. Presumably it’s meant to be comforting, but it falls flat. It is Garret, so frankly, Noelle didn’t even expect this level of seriousness. “Now,” Garret continues, gesturing to his exposed torso, “If you’ll excuse me, I should go get dressed before Carver comes by and tells me I’m the family disappointment again. Pleasure seeing you, Miss Trevelyan. Tell Cassandra I say hi, yes?”

Luckily for Cassandra, Garret’s request has slipped Noelle’s mind by the time she returns to the Quarterly. She arrives in a gloomy, worried mood, and she can’t help but wonder if she should have been more insistent with Cullen. Likely, it wouldn’t have helped, but the thought is troubling nevertheless. Absentmindidly, she starts to make her way up the stairs only to find herself walking straight into someone. There’s startled sounds on both ends, and then: “Noelle?”

“Sorry, Cassandra! I was…distracted.”

Cassandra has her bag slung over her shoulder, and car key in hand. Despite the general “ready to-go” appearance, she stills and takes in Noelle’s appearance. “How was he?”

Noelle shrugs. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t let me in.” She can’t keep the dejection from her tone.

Thinkingly, Cassandra pauses. “I just got a tip about a crime scene. Would you want to tag along? It can’t help Cullen, but it may be a good distraction.”

Noelle agrees almost immediately. It’s been a while since she’s gone with Cassandra to check out a tip, but evidently some things haven’t changed. Such as Cassandra being almost comically vague about the situation. It isn’t as if Cassandra is flat out avoiding telling Noelle anything, but she does suspect that Cassandra gets a litle carried away in the excitement and forgets that Noelle is out of the loop. So, at first, Noelle sits in the passenger seat and waits for Cassandra to explain. But when minutes pass and the most sound Cassandra makes is he drumming of her fingers on the steering wheel, Noelle opts to speak up.

“Do you think we’ll beat the City to this?”

Cassandra takes a moment to answer. “I would like to think. The tip came from the brother of one of Varric’s copy boys, apparently we have some connections with the police force I wasn’t aware of.”

Then, silence again.

“Do I get any other information about what I’m walking into, Cassandra?” Noelle asks.

“Oh, yes.” As if explaining the details to Noelle has just occurred to her. As if the last time Cassandra hadn’t, Noelle hadn’t stumble unknowingly into a very graphic murder. “The details were not specific, just that there was a dead body found in the back of a corner store, it's believed to be mob related. And," Cassandra nods her head, "I believe I can see the crime scene just ahead.”

Sure enough, not two blocks ahead of them is a taped off streetcorner. Two cops stand outside the tape, standing at attention. A small crowd has gathered, no more than fifteen people, and excitingly for Noelle and Cassandra, none of them appear to be journalists. Behind the police tape is a nondescript corner store, which Noelle would typically associate with a small robbery and not actual violence. Between the small crowd and the police car, Cassandra has to find a parking spot the next street over.  
Outside, the loudest noise is the low murmur of the crowd. Apparently word hasn’t gotten out at all. The police aren’t even ushering people away. Cassandra approaches the nearest office, a young man of about twenty-something who visibly tenses at the sight of Cassandra barreling forward with her notebook in hand.

“Ma’am, this is an active crime scene-” he starts, only to be cut off by: “Cassandra Pentaghast, Skyhold Quarterly. Can I ask what’s going on here?”

“As I was saying Ms. Pentaghast, this is an active crime scene. We can’t say much, as again, it is an active crime scene, but the case looks pretty cut and dry. Mid-30s victim, no sign of a struggle, with traces of lyrium all over the back room. Safe to say it’s probably drug related.”

“No sign of a struggle?” Noelle jumps in, “Was it an OD?”

The officer shakes his head. “No, murder. One gunshot, back of the head. Very neat.”

“Do you believe it was professionally done, then?” Cassandra asks.

The officer shakes his head. “I probably can’t say anymore. Apologies.”

“Ewald?” Noelle asks, peering at his badge. “You’re with Captain Aveline, aren’t you? At the Kirkwall station?”

“I- yes, I am.”

“The Quarterly used to work quite closely with the Kirkwall Station. We had a correspondent there until about three months ago,” Noelle says. It’s been probably closer to half a year since Lace Harding was there, but three months is close enough. “I’m not saying that you need to let us to see the crime scene, but Captain Aveline certainly wouldn’t mind if you answered a few of our questions.”

“Captain Aveline minds a lot of things,” Ewald responds.

Noelle snorts a laugh at that. “Then we won’t name names. ‘Man Found Dead In Corner Store Storage: Believed Mob Connection, Informant Says’.” As Noelle titles the story, she waves her hands in the air as if imagining it on a banner above them. “Easy peasy. We get our story, you don’t get yelled at. Sound square?”

Ewald casts a vary look around. The other officer outside is wearing sunglasses, and his head keeps dipping down, and may very well be asleep. This, apparently, is reassurance enough for Ewald shrugs. “Very well, but just a few questions.”

“Of course,” Noelle says. She nods at Cassandra to give her the go ahead.

Cassandra clears her throat. “Do you think this was a professional hit, then?”

“I think it’d have to be. Perfect shot, execution style.” Loosely, Ewald pantomimes pulling a trigger and makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “It’s harder than it seems.”

“Do you know anything about the victim? Was he a member of a mob?”

Ewald shrugs. “Hard to tell. There’s no tattoos, no clear signs of any mob affiliation, and no form of identification at all. If I had to guess, he was probably working as a distributor. You know, selling the lyrium to the dealers. Sort of a middle-man situation, I suspect.”

“Could the Chargers have had any involvement?” Noelle asks. Cassandra gives Noelle a look.

“The Chargers?” Ewald repeats, with a shake of his head. “Almost definitely not. This isn’t their style. They’re cleaner than this.”

“You just said this murder was ‘very neat’?” Noelle cocks her head to the side.

“The Chargers, I’ve found, barely leave a crime scene behind. We don’t find bodies, with the Chargers they just _vanish_. And the few times they do leave a scene behind, it’s well laid out. It seems as if they’re trying to not leave a mess for the police, if that makes any sense. Sounds a bit silly saying that out loud, though. But no. _This_ ,” Ewald gestures back to the corner store, “this is not their MO. This, frankly, seems different than the mob murders we’ve seen so far. If it’s not the Chargers, it’s messy. Probably a situation that escalated to violence. Lyrium does that. Makes people jumpy. This one seems calculated. Either one of the mobs hired a black hand, or there’s someone new on the scene, and I’m not sure what’s worse.” He stops speaking, and looks between Noelle and Cassandra. “This is all anonymous, right?”

“Of course.” Cassandra nods. “We’ll let you get back to work. Thank you for your time, Officer.”

Ewald gives them both a curt nod.

“Interesting,” Noelle remarks once they’re back in the car.

“It very much is,” Cassandra agrees. “We may have to see if Lace wants to go back to Kirkwall Station for a bit, if this is what’s going on in their area.”

Noelle helps Cassandra write up a brief article about the shooting as soon as they get back, and spend the rest of the afternoon discussing further possibilities and things to look out for. After work, Noelle joins Varric and Rylen for a cup of coffee before heading to her house, and meanders about the rest of her doing not much of anything. She paces, mostly, takes a walk around the block, then a walk to the corner store to buy ice cream. Nothing exciting but still something. Worry over Cullen has been following her about all day, and without a story to follow she’s left with little to calm her mind. Still, she manages to fall into an uneasy sleep shortly before midnight.

Until the shrill ringing of a phone startles Noelle awake. In her drowsy stupour, she forgets to check the time and nearly trips over a lazily tossed shoe on the floor. It’s pitch black, the dead of night, and Noelle’s first and only thought is something must be wrong. The what is a little hazier, but it’s enough to send Noelle into a panic.  
She basically lunges for the phone once it’s in sight. “Noelle Trevelyan speaking. Hello?” She answers, breathlessly. She’s only marginally more alert now. Enough, at least, to try and take some deep breathes and try to stop her from pounding.

“Oh!” The voice on the other end is male, vaguely familiar, and sounds a little surprised to actually be talking to someone. “Oh, good, it’s you. I wasn’t sure if-” by this point, Noelle can make a fairly certain guess that it’s Cullen on the other end of the line. But just in case she wasn’t, Cullen trails off and says, “It’s. Uh. It’s Cullen. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Noelle laughs. “Cullen, it’s the middle of the night.” Admittedly, she’s delighted to hear he sounds more coherent than earlier, but calling this late - or this early, Noelle supposes- is a little absurd.

“I. Of course. I apologize. I must have lost track of time. I should probably let you get back to sleep-”

“Cullen,” Noelle cuts him off. “It’s fine, I was hardly asleep anyway. You called for a reason, yes? Is everything - I mean, are you alright?”

“Better now,” Cullen says with a humourless chuckle. “At the very least, compared to earlier. Thank you for asking. But you’re right. I did call for a reason. I…remember you coming by early. It’s admittedly a little fuzzy but I can remember being less than kind, and I wanted to apologize.”

“You don’t-”

“I do. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.” 

Bless his heart. He had been worrying certainly, but not rude. Cullen’s asking as if he insulted Noelle’s mother and then told her to fuck off.

“So,” Cullen continues. “I think I owe you an apology, and an explanation.”

Noelle freezes. She manages to compose herself before Cullen speaks again, and finally gets a full sentence in. “It’s. Cullen. You don’t need to tell me anything. If you don’t want to, that is. You don’t owe me anything.”

“No, no, but thank you. I want to do this. You have been nothing but a truly kind friend, and.” Cullen pauses. “Well, and, I want you to know.” 

Noelle rests against the wall, and slowly sinks to the ground. She never spends that much time on the phone, preferring face-to-face conversation the majority of the time, and as such there is absolutely no seating near her. So, in her dark apartment, she sits on the floor with her phone cradled between her neck and shoulder and waits.

“I’m sure you know,” Cullen begins, slowly. “That American pilots were given lyrium to keep them awake on long flights during the war.”

Noelle nods. Cullen doesn’t pick up on this through the phone.

“Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – RAF pilots managed to gain access to it through American connections. Including myself. It helped the war effort, certainly, but after the war…” Cullen trails off.

 Noelle, waiting in rapt silence, tries to bite her tongue to stop herself from cutting him off.  _I know_ , she wants to say. Because maybe then he wouldn’t have to talk about it, and then maybe Noelle wouldn’t have to listen to how torn up he sounds through a phone receiver.

“I’ve seen what happens to soldiers who don’t quit. Or who used too much. They lose everything, Noelle. Not just their lives – memories, identities, everything. And that.” Cullen stops and audibly swallows. When he speaks again, his voice wobbles, but Noelle can hear determination creeping in at the edges of it. “That wasn’t going to be me. So. I quit. It’s been months now. Some days are…worse than others, and today was one of the worst in some time. I’m sorry for sending you away like that. I was, ashamed, I suppose, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I. Well. You deserve to know.”

“What’s it like?” Noelle asks, not sure if she wants an answer.

“It..changes, depending on the day,” Cullen says. “Right now, for example, it just feels like someone is drill their way out of my temple. Other days everything hurts, and on the worst, it feels like I’m back  _there_  and I can’t get rid of it. Even if I’m just sitting in my office.”

“That sounds dreadful.”

“The alternative is worse.”

“Thank you,” Noelle says after a moment. “For telling me. I appreciate you trusting me. Is there anything I can do?”

Cullen chuckles softly. “I think I’ve kept you up for long enough. Thanks for the offer, but I should let you get to sleep.”

Compared to this afternoon, Cullen sounds much better. Tired, certainly, but at least functional. Noelle feels better knowing that. “Cullen,” Noelle says, and for the first time tries to catch a glimpse at her clock. “You woke me after two in the morning, you’d better make this worth my while.”

This gets an earnest laugh out of Cullen. “Very well, what did you want to talk about?”

So Noelle tells Cullen about the crime scene she and Cassandra went to, and they wind up trading stories about ridiculous stories they’ve covered, and somewhere along the line Noelle loses track of time completely.  The only thing to jar her back to reality is when the phone beeps, once, and then the voice of Garret Hawke carries through.

“Oh for  _fucks sake_ ,” he says. “You’re still on the phone? It’s four thirty in the god damn morning, some people have calls to make!”

Noelle flounders, unsure how to respond. Had Garret tried to make a call earlier? Noelle can’t remember hearing anything else besides Cullen on the phone the whole time they’ve been talking.

Cullen doesn’t appear nearly as phased.

“Who are you trying to call at four thirty in the morning, Hawke?” Cullen asks.

“People,” is Hawke’s airily dismissive response. “It’s important. Also, don’t you two work together? You’re going to see each other in literally a few hours. Go to bed, for Christ’s sake, and let me use the phone.”

Noelle’s cheeks start to feel a bit red. “Well. Goodnight, I suppose?” She ventures.

“Goodnight, Noelle,” says Cullen, at the same time as Garret goes, “Goodnight, Ms. Trevelyan.”

Noelle manages to get a small two hour nap in before getting up to go to work. The nap doesn’t really wake her up. If anything, it makes her drowsier, and her trek to work feels almost endless. She’s sure she has something she should be doing at work, but as she climbs the stairs to the office her entire plan involves sitting at her desk and trying to keep her eyes open. Typically, it doesn’t take long before something at work throws a wrench into those plans (usually, it’s Ritts doing the throwing), but today it happens earlier than usual. She walks through the door, and stops almost immediately. A lithe redhead is standing in the doorway of Cullen’s office. She’s facing into Cullen’s office, but Noelle recognizes Leliana almost immediately. Excitement wells up inside Noelle, and she tries to squash it down. Leliana could just be here to deliver bad news. Or it may not even be related. But still, Noelle can’t quite seem to stop her heart from pounding.

Dennit clears his throat, and Leliana spins round.

"Excellent, just who I was waiting for!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They used to give pilots cocaine during World War 2, and this may be one of the few occasions where I say that I think cocaine is actually a safer option.  
> (This one my be a little worse for wear in terms of errors - my cat woke me up way too early and I had to edit on like four hours of sleep).


	12. Chapter 12

**_THE GOLDEN CITY_ **  
**_APRIL 6TH, 1947_ **

**_“A Fearsome Beast, Indeed”_**  
_In the more recent weeks, we have seen a drastic increase in mob violence. Most recently a murder at the Elgin Cornerstore, where a man was found shot in the back of the building, was believed to have ties to mob violence. Smaller level gangs wreak havoc on the street, selling lyrium to our societies most vulnerable. The further up the ranks you go, the more nefarious and mysterious these gangs get. Take, for example, The Chargers. First seen just a few months ago as a minor street gang, these group has become one of the biggest distributors of lyrium in NYC. When The Chargers claim their mark, they do not leave a body behind. Police can often deduce the mob that order the hit by their modus opperandi. The Griffons, for example, tend to kill their marks via strangulation. As a result, it is possible to know the Griffon’s body count. With the Chargers it is impossible to know. Those who incur the wrath of the Chargers simply vanish. A most worrying fate, indeed._  
  
_The Chargers rise to power can be attributed to their infamous leader. Most know his alias - The Iron Bull, but little know what he is like. Reports say that The Iron Bull came to America from Par Vollen. Par Vollen is a small island between the United Kingdom and Norway, now of little global import. However, in the days of old British folklore spoke of the Qunari people, a tribe from Par Vollen, that would lead raids on the British countryside. They’d wreak havoc, pillaging and stealing away the wifes of the village. In these tales the Qunari were said to have massive horns and a bulking stature. Truly demonic, in all senses of the word._

_And it may be true that The Iron Bull is lacking the horns from the myth, but there is no doubt that he is just as much of a menace as the Qunari in the old tales._

 

Leliana does an infuriatingly good job of playing coy until everyone is nicely seated in Cullen’s office. Noelle’s heart nearly caught in her throat from anticipation alone the moment she saw Leliana in the Quarterly offices. There’s a look of equal curiosity on Cullen’s face as he shifts at his desk. Leliana’s smile is unwaveringly polite as she remarks on the mild weather.

  
Noelle hopes for good news, but Leliana could say any number of awful of things with that polite smile.

  
“I am sorry,” Leliana starts with, which is not encouraging, “I did consider writing as soon as I heard the news but I decided I would rather speak to you in person.”

  
Cullen looks, bewildered, towards Noelle. She can only match his expression and shrug. So far as Noelle can guess, at this point, it must be good news. Leliana frequently reminds Noelle of a very sly cat, but it seems unusually cruel to leave them dangling this long with bad news. Seemingly oblivious to Noelle and Cullen’s confusion, Leliana absently rifles through her bag. After several moments of uncomfortable rustling, Leliana makes a triumphant “ah!” sound, and pulls out a small envelope.

  
“I knew I had left this in here. See, even for me, it’s next to impossible to speak to the Empress directly, I had reach out to several contacts to get a letter to Celene. They’ve tightened security lately, as well. It took more bribes than I was expecting.” Noelle expects Leliana is telling them to really drill in how much they’ll owe her later on. Leliana grins, coyly, and wave the envelope just once. It makes a very satisfying flicking sound.

  
“Naturally, Celene didn’t write back personally, but she had one of her ladies-in-waiting reply.” Here, Leliana gives a proper grin and Noelle begins to allow herself to feel excited. “Though they seem skeptical, apparently Duchess Florienne remembered you from Crestwood and convinced Celene to allow it. I’m impressed, Florienne is not easily won over.”

  
Noelle remembers Florienne’s glittering white smile, and the distinct way each conversations with her felt like it had gone over her head. Nevertheless, she allows herself to feel flattered that the Duchess had been impressed by her.

  
“But,” Leliana says after a moment, and across from Noelle Cullen snorts humourlessly. There is, of course, always a but. “There are several conditions to you attending. The Orlesian Court doesn’t seem to want American law involved in the matter, so provided you an agree to their terms, you will allowed to attend. No legal contracts needed. And, of course, understand that if you break one of their rules security will escort you from the premises immediately. They’re being unusually generous.” Leliana half-shrugs.

  
“Certainly fair,” Noelle agrees. Or, at the very least, she assumes it is. Noelle is no great expert on Orlais.

  
Easily, like she’s reading off a grocery list, Leliana lists of the rules for Noelle. Noelle will be sitting stage left, behind a curtain that will allow her to see the Empress and their gathering but will prevent the Empress from ever seeing Noelle. Evidently she, the regular old New Yorker, would ruin the mood. At no point will Noelle be allowed to enter the main area of the auditorium Leliana is performing in, nor should she make herself visible or speak to anyone in the auditorium. It is at this point that Noelle, jokingly, suggests that she should just cover herself with a sheet and be done with it. Leliana looks her up, then done, as if considering the idea. There is a moment of silence that seems to go on for too long before Leliana shakes her head and dismisses the notion.

  
Further, as Orlesians wear masks at events such as this it is only expected that Noelle will wear one as well. It is expected to be simple, one flat colour with no additional decorations, and Noelle will be expected to find one for herself. The Empress’s mask will be grand, making Noelle’s flashy could be seen as “upstaging”. There are even rules on eye-contact, of all things. It’s hardly complicated, though, Noelle is not allowed to meet Celene’s gaze. If by some off-chance Noelle makes eye contact with the Empress Noelle must immediately break eye contact and look elsewhere.  
There are other, smaller things; trivialities of dress and manner and things that Leliana insists Noelle can easily learn at a later date.

  
“So, Ms. Trevelyan?” Leliana lips quirk into a small smile, as if she already knows what the answer will be. “Does this sound fair to you?”

  
"I think," Noelle says slowly, "I'd be crazy to say no."

  
Leliana’s grin widens. "I had hoped you would agree. Celine is arriving in New York in a week, and staying at the Chateau Royeaux in Manhattan. She is insisting the details of her arrival remain private, so I have only been told the slightest of information."

  
It’s likely that Leliana knows more than the “slightest” bit, but Noelle chooses to remain silent.

  
"Her private concert will be next Friday, at 8 P.M. Of course, it is Orlais so it is expected everything will be fashionably late. Myself included. Celene’s making her first public American appearance at City Hall the day after her concert, which means you will be one of the first Americans to set eyes on the Great Empress of Orlais." There’s a wry hint in Leliana’s tone.

  
"We could do a special issue for Saturday morning? The Empress Edition?" Noelle suggests to Cullen.

  
Cullen contemplates this. "We've done special editions for worse things."

  
Noelle spends a brief moment wondering which special edition was worse. Then she remembers. "Hawke's birthday edition?"

  
Cullen rolls his eyes. "Hawke's birthday addition," he confirms with a groan. "I'll speak with Rylen and see if anyone has an stories lying around they want to see the light of day. Leliana, what time is the Empress's public appearance?"

  
"I was told 1. Likely, though, it will be closer to 1:30."

  
Cullen nods, then looks at Noelle. "Should we aim to have the special issue out for ten a.m.?"

  
"That should work” Noelle agrees.

  
Leliana only stays for a few more minutes, going over some small. They’re to meet at The Hanged Man at 7:00 to prepare, since Leilana has generously offered to allow Noelle a glimpse into her pre-show routine (and Leliana seems to wholeheartedly belief that getting ready together will be a bonding experience to last the ages). It will also give Noelle a ride to the Chateau Royeaux. Which, in and of itself, is a huge bonus. Leliana vanishes with a swirl of her skirt and leaves only the smell of lavender perfume behind.

  
Alone with Cullen, Noelle sits bewildered in an officer chair. It’s a bit surreal after all these weeks of waiting, to have this so casually tossed into her lap. One week and she will see the Empress of Orlais. Giddiness spreads through her, starting in her toes and working it's way up until Noelle is just about beaming.

  
"Holy shit," She says to Cullen.

  
Cullen barks a surprised laugh. "Indeed. Congratulations, Noelle.” His smile is warm. “It would seem Leliana came just in time.”

  
Noelle laughs. “I’d say! If you don’t mind, once I’m finished with Ellandra and Ritts today I’d like to take the afternoon to go do some research.” Her knowledge of Orlais is based almost entirely from scattered news reports and disparaging stories from American soldiers who had grown weary of Orleasian neutrality. It is not the most unbiased of pictures. Cullen, obviously, agrees, and Noelle sets about organizing the entertainment page for Thursday. Ellandra has an article on her thoughts on the decline of theater today, while Ritts has written yet another glowing article on Cary Grant. It doesn’t take long to finish things up at the Quarterly. In the tradition of most of Noelle’s research trips, she invites Dorian along. The man is a gifted researcher and seems to have no qualms absorbing any sort of knowledge, no matter how trivial.

  
For once Dorian is early, and waiting on the stone steps of the library as Noelle approaches. Though the coming spring has mellowed the cold weather some, Dorian still wears a thin jet black jacket. Noelle, sleep deprived and in a rush that morning (because, as it turns out, chatting with your boss on the phone until 4:30 in the morning is ill-advised) had only thrown on a beige cardigan in the morning. Around Dorian’s neck is a stark red scarf, fluttering out in the breeze. It looks so dramatic Noelle assumes Dorian has to have planned the wind.

Noelle waves as she approaches, and Dorian responds with a friendly nod. They make quick work of the usual small talk.

"May I ask what sparked your sudden interest in Orlais?" Dorian asks, in lieau of a remark on the weather. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and he bumps his shoulder against Noelle as they climb the stairs.

"Well," Noelle responds. "A little raven may have handed me an invitation to the Empress of Orlais’s private New York concert. I imagine I should read about the lions den I’m about to walk into.”

Dorian cocks his head to look at her, eyebrow arched. Surprise flickers across his expression. "So the rumours are true, then. The esteemed Celene is coming to visit. Lucky that raven flew to you, then." Dorian smiles. "Congratulations, truly."

Noelle smiles, and this time bumps her shoulder into Dorian’s.

The Therin Public Library is small library, surrounded on both sides by park space. In the summer, the park is a lovely shady stop for a lunch. Now, it’s a muddy empty space full of tall dead trees. The steps to the library lead to a glass door, framed by two small columns. Above, hanging from a hand-painted banner is a sign proudly proclaiming: “Therin Public Library: Proudly Serving the Community Since 1916”. Inside the library everything seems much louder. Noelle is acutely aware of the sound her shoes make on the tiled floor. Other than that the only other noise is the rustling of paper. It’s eerie. To the left of the door is a long, rounded desk that curves to reach the side wall of the building. Filing cabinet upon filing cabinet are tucked away behind it, as well as countless amount of clutter. There is no sign of the librarian at the desk, and Noelle breathes a sigh of relief. Even that feels almost too loud. The center of the room is a carpeted reading area with three wooden tables. Only one table is occupied, by a young girl with jet black black hair. Dorian and Noelle’s entrance doesn’t catch her attention.

“I may know a few books on Orlais that would be helpful to you,” Dorian whispers.

“Are you sure you don’t work here?” Noelle teases.

“They may as well hire me, I’d be quite the asset. Here, we should look in the history section first.”

All Noelle has to do is follow Dorian throughout the dimly lit stacks with her arms out. Dorian seems to know exactly where to look, and walks with purpose around the library. Each time he stops he stands, hmming and tapping his chin before pulling it off the shelf and dropping it down on Noelle’s ever growing book pile. With five heavy books, Dorian shoos her away the tables while he looks for books of her own.

As she settles in at the table a creaking sound alerts her to Solas’s presence. He walks by slowly, pushing a full book cart towards the counter. When he notices Noelle he makes eye contact for a moment longer than necessary and nods hello. Noelle nods back and tries to pretend she’s focusing on the books in front of her.

  
_Orlais: A New History For A New Nation_ by Bruntin Vollney, _Ten Years in Orlais: 1920-1930_ by Brother Genitivi, _My Orlais_ by Pierre-Marie Monfort, _A Most Unusual Experience: One Night At An Orlesian Ball_ by Emmeline Dupuis, and _Orlais: A History_ by Florian Valmont.

Noelle sighs.

From where she’s sitting, she can look directly up and see the pressed tin ceiling of the library. The second floor forms a sort of interior balcony, wrapping around the walls of the building and overlooking the main sitting area. The bookshelves on the second level are just barely visible from where Noelle is sitting. The silence is stifling, and try as Noelle might to focus on A Most Unusual Experience she can’t. Her attention keeps wandering away. Perhaps hoping to find some source of life other than the creaky wheel of Solas’s book cart.

_I grew up on a small farm in the countryside of France, near a village of little note, so you imagine my surprise when I look back on my life and can recall such honours as meeting the great Winston Churchill, taking a great African safari with Brother Genitivi, and being present at a grand Imperial Ball in Orlais._

Noelle starts tapping a finger on the table. Emmeline Dupuis sounds exactly like the sort of a guest her parents would have over for dinner. Married to a wealthy husband, and taking all sorts of fancy excursions all over the world just to come home to brag about it dinner guests. Despite herself, Noelle feels a twinge of irritation at Ms. Dupuis. Publishing this book just seems to be another form of bragging, as the first chapter expounds heavily on her humble beginnings. It goes to further explain the circumstances leading up to her invitation to an Orlesian Ball. It was the reign of Etienne Valmont II, and there was some amount of convoluted social networking that led to it, but regardless, it led to Emmeline Dupuis attending the winter ball of 1926.

Solas and his cart creak by yet again.

_Imagine, if you will, the glamour of the Orlesian Court in the 1920’s. Sparkling gold and elaborate dresses that harken back to the time of Versailles, and of opulent Kings and Queens. As I walked through the iron-wrought gates into the palace courtyard, I stepped into a veritable winter wonderland. A thin layer of snow coated everything, and toed the fine line of being “just enough” snow. There was enough snow to look like a postcard, yet not enough to make walking through it a sludge. Grand ice sculptures lined the path to the palace stairs. Swans, lions, and all manner of majestic creatures watched me with an icy eye as I proceeded down the path. The Palace doors had been thrown open and it allowed the warm sounds of the party inside to echo through the courtyard. Women in finer dresses than mine walked past slowly, talking with the men on their arms. It was abundantly clear that many of these were practiced at this. And it is certainly true that nary the outsider has been allowed to walk in the Orlesian palace. How blessed was I, then!_

Dorian plunks his books down opposite Noelle and slides into a chair. Dorian has a smaller stack of books than Noelle, just three, but he appears to be quite pleased with his selection. “Having fun yet?” He whispers.

In response, Noelle holds up _A Most Unusual Experience_ and gives a halfhearted shrug.

“I see,” Dorian says. “Not an encouraging start, then.”

Instead of focusing on reading, Noelle watches Dorian as he begins to peruse a book. Perhaps Noelle hadn’t been looking too closely at Dorian before, or perhaps she is looking for a sort of distraction from reading, but it almost looks as if there’s a small bruise just above Dorian’s temple.

 “Dorian.”

“Hm?”

Instead of reaching across the table to touch Dorian, Noelle taps at her forehead. “What’s that?”

There is a brief flicker of a panic on Dorian’s face before he seems to compose himself. “That, Noelle, is your head. Should I be concerned?” His grin tries to say he’s joking, but mostly it says he’s hiding something.

Noelle shakes her head firmly, then points from her temple to his. “No, that. Are you okay?”

Absently, Dorian brushes his finger over the bruise. “It’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Dorian.” Across the room, Solas makes a shushing noise. Noelle tries again, this time in a harsh whisper. “Dorian.”

“Are you going to make me talk about this?” Dorian asks. He’s clearly trying to sound disgruntled but isn’t quite pulling it off. Noelle arches both eyebrows. She would quite like to talk about this. Apparently all it takes is the arched eyebrows for Dorian rolls his eyes, huffs, and rises. At first, Noelle assumes he’s going to storm off, but instead he makes to go check out his book. When he’s about halfway to the counter, he looks over his shoulder and spots Noelle still sitting. He frowns and moves his shoulder forward to beckon Noelle to him. She grabs her books and follows.

Neither discuss where they’re heading next as they leave the library. Noelle simply follows Dorian to his car, to let him decide. It only takes a moment once they start driving for Noelle to recongize the route to the Red Jenny.

As Dorian drives, he talks of his night. Like always with the Chargers, Dorian speaks slowly, like he has to monitor what he's saying.

  
"There was a meeting of sorts with the Chargers last night." Dorian frowns. "Same people, new location, Bull was nervous. Rightly so, apparently, since things went wrong right away. There was a...scuffle."

  
"Dorian-" Evidently Dorian’s heard enough of this already, as he raises a hand to cut her off

  
"Noelle, mother hen, stop. I am perfectly fine. My face will recover from the bruise and I will soon be handsome as ever."

  
"You said you were safe." Noelle accuses.

  
"Moderately."

  
Noelle stares at him flatly. There is a big difference between “safe” and “modately safe” and at the moment that difference may involve Noelle’s friends limps. However, it’s readily apparent that avenue of conversation will get them no where.

  
"Okay," She says slowly. She has no interest in rehashing this conversation. "You're fine-"

  
"Completely fine"

  
"So then what went wrong? You said you knew them?" It’s tricky to shut down the instinctive part of herself that solely wants to remind Dorian to be safe a thousand times, but she does it. She rests her hands politely in her lap and tries to be objective.

  
Dorian shrugs. "As well as one can know any member of the drug trade, I suppose. But we’d had dealings with them many times before. They'd supply us, we'd sell, the usual. They've been having trouble lately - dissent in the ranks or some such, but evidently they blamed us. Last night was some sort of poorly organized trap." Dorian shakes his head. "Thankfully no one was seriously hurt."

  
There’s all sorts of choice responses Noelle starts to form, but one glaring thing sticks out at her.

“Dorian.” Noelle says flatly. “You said ‘we’”.

Not “Bull” not “them”, but “we”. Dorian’s lips purse into a thin defensive line. There is a certain amount of detachment expected from jouranlists. Personal investments in stuff like this gets messy, fast. Especially if you’re invested in the actual honest-to-God drug trade. Noelle doesn’t know what angle Dorian wants from this, or what The Chargers get from it, but the ‘we’ makes her uneasy.

“It’s not like that.” Dorian’s gaze stays firmly fixed on the road. The air in the car seems to cool, ever so slightly. 

“Then what is it like, Dorian?” Noelle can’t stop her tone from becoming accusatory. Oh, sure, they’re drug dealers but they’re swell guys.

Dorian exhales heavily through his nose. “It’s not that simple. I’ve been working with the Chargers for months now, Noelle. I can promise they’re what you think they are.”

“Oh?” Noelle crosses her arms over her chest. “So they’re _not_ violent drug dealers?”

Dorian’s mouth opens, then closes. Noelle tries not to feel too smug that she's rendered him speechless. 

“I saw the City article today, Dorian. It’s not good. And I’ve heard cops talking about their victims just vanishing. And I’m supposed to believe that they’re okay, and that you’re safe with them? Dorian. They’re drug dealers.” Noelle gives him a level stare. Dorian is frowning heavily, eyes narrowed and brow creased. “Getting invested like this with them is going to get you hurt.”

“I’m not asking you to like this-“ Dorian starts

“Good," Noelle says sharply, "because I don’t.”

A heavy silence falls over the car. Dorian stares steadfastly ahead, looking decidedly expressionless. Noelle watches him through the corner of her eyes. She pretends to stare out the window, worry twisting up her insides. Until now she’s been able to let go of this, and trust Dorian, but now this seems too far. Sure, it was just a punch this time, but it could get so much worse. Executed in the back of a corner store worse.

“Well.” Dorian clears his throat. “That was a more dramatic library trip than expected.” The attempt at glibness falls flat. “Where shall I drop you off?”

Noelle thinks, at first, about saying ‘Home’. But there it would be the same crushing silence, and it would leave Noelle alone to replay this tense car ride over and over and over again. Based on the sinking feeling in her stomach she isn't sure she's up for that. It's a rare day when she and Dorian fight, and it's never been quite like this. There is significantly more at stake here than who should pay for dinner.

“The Red Jenny," Noelle says. The rest of the drive is full of uncomfortable silence, until Dorian pulls up out front of the restaurant. Noelle steps out of the car and Dorian drives away. 

He doesn't peel away in a huff, slamming on the gas with the tires screeching. No, he just calmly and slowly drives off. There is no theatrics, no fit, and it's very unlike Dorian.

Alone on the sidewalk, Noelle tries not to think about how bad of a sign that is. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap guys, sorry it took forever! Life and responsibilities got in the way. Updates may be a bit more sporadic because I've gotta my shit together for university again, but I promise I'm in this for the long haul.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Skyhold Quarterly** _

_**March 14 th, 1946** _

_**ENTERTAINMENT** _

_**At the Movies** _

_Notorious – A Hitchcock directed spy film, staring the one and only Cary Grant, and actress Ingrid Bergman. The film follows Grant’s character Devlin tracking down Nazi’s in South America with the help of Bergman’s character Alicia. If you’re in the mood for action, intrigue, or romance, this is the film for you. The romance between Devlin and Alicia positively sizzles on screen, no doubt in part thanks to Grant’s general charm._

_Thalsian – Directed by up-and-comer in the Hollywood scene, Maevaris Tilani, this biopic follows the tragic life of one of Tevinter’s Archons. The film is thoroughly dark and gloomy, beginning with a sacrifice to ordain the future of Thalsian, the archon of Tevinter, and ending with Thalsian’s death as a result of his own hubris. Though a nice homage to Tilani’s home country, Thalsian drags on for far too long, and with no reprieve from the dark subject matter, I left the theater feeling decidedly despondent. If you, reader, are particularly inclined towards history than you may enjoy this film._

_-E.Ritts._

 

Noelle is in a foul mood when she stomps into the Red Jenny. She is the single black cloud in a generally cheery sky; Doris Day is singing through the Red Jenny’s radio, and the waitreses are laughing behind the counter as some secret joke. The mood, overall, is one of contentment and laughter. It just doesn’t’ seem to be reaching Noelle.

To make matters worse, Varric is at the Quarterly table.

She’d _hoped_ that, since it is the middle of the work day, she’d be able to work without the pestering of coworkers.

Well, no.

 She’d actually hoped that Dorian would also be coming inside with her, but that’s clearly not happening. So alone was just a runner-up hope.

There is no turning on her heel and leaving, however. Varric has noticed her, which makes fleeing seem distinctly rude, and Noelle isn’t eager to find a new spot to loiter in while she researches. So she sinks into her regular seat and drops the books down on the table. They land with a thud that shakes the teaspoon Varric is currently using to stir his coffee.

“Rough day?” Varric asks.

Noelle grunts.

“I see.” Varric raises an eyebrow. “Is this a thing you need to talk about, or…?” Varric gestures vaguely, leaving the second option open.

“How does drinking coffee in silence sound?”

The request seems to confuse Varric as he glances about the restaurant. It’s a busy place, after all, and Varric has never been one for prolonged silences.  “I mean, we can certainly give it a try.” He offers up a halfhearted shrug, which Noelle takes as a sign to flip open a book and try to pretend Varric isn’t staring at her.

_Interestingly, the Orlesian choice of governing seems to favour dramatics over stability. While many countries today have adopted a democractic system, Orlais remains firmly in favour of the monarchy. But, there is the rub, that the Orlesian monarchy is not old enough to back historic claims. Instead, a number of wealthy Orlesian families tend to vie for power in increasingly underhanded and-_

There’s a screeching noise as Sera drags out a chair to sit down. She has two cups in hand and kicks the chair out with her foot.“Hey-o,” she says, as she slides a full cup of coffee in front of Noelle. The coffee is a milky brown, and appears to be just the way Noelle likes it.

Amused, Varric murmurs, “it was worth a try.”

Sera doesn’t appear to hear him. “That’s a big pile of books you got there. Anything exciting? Is it _racy_ like Cassandra’s books?”

“Not so far as I know,” Noelle responds. “They are books about Orlais, though, so who knows what will happen.”

From the bits and pieces of rumours Noelle has heard about the sheer decadence of the Orlesian court, something racy would hardly shock her. Besides, Dorian’s told her of Tevinter’s history and Orlais can hardly be as bad as that. The thought of Dorian makes Noelle’s stomach sink just a bit. They’ve had spats before, like all friend, but perhaps she’d been a bit too hard on him. He may be in a terrifying and potentially life-threatening situation she maybe could have trusted him a bit more.

He is, after all, a grown man.

The flip-side of it all is that while Dorian is a grown man, he is still working with a _mob_ and doesn’t seem to grasp the severity of that situation.

 

“Ah,” says Varric, as if something is starting to make sense to him. “This is about Celene, then.”

Because, of course, the Empress’s highly secretive visit could never be a real secret. Noelle wonders how much of the Quarterly already knows. Then, she wonders if someone at the Golden City has gotten word as well.

“How are these old books gonna help you with Celene?” Sera asks, poking at the pile. “I read a book about Theodore Roosevelt once, hasn’t helped me yet.”

“I don’t expect to _use_ anything I read, Sera, it’s more for context. You know, figure out what exactly Orlais is all about.”

Varric reaches across the table to pluck one of the books off the pile. Noelle moves to stop him but isn’t quite fast enough, and slumps back into her chair. She frowns as Varric thumbs curiously through _Orlais: A History_. Though Noelle didn’t pick the books out she can’t help but feel as if Varric is judging her choices. There’s a small furrow in his brow as though he’s thinking quite hard. After several moments, Varric _plunks_ the book back down on the table.

“This isn’t going to tell you what you need, Pinky.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Varric says with an airy wave of his hand. “History’s important. Hell, some of the world’s best stories come from it. _But_ , if you’re trying to figure out what Empress Celene is all about this isn’t going to help.”

Noelle arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for an expert on Orlais, Varric.”

Varric shrugs. “What can I say, I’m full of surprises. And apparently I have quite the fan base in Orlais.” This, Varric seems somewhat bewildered about.

“Really?” Sera asks, both eyebrows furrowing. “Those hoity-toities like _your_ books?”

“Oh, as if my books can’t appeal to people of all walks of life?”

Sera makes a “pfft” sound and raises her hands in defeat. “Just sayin’.”

“Anyway,” Noelle interjects, “What _do_ I need to know then, Varric?” She arches an eyebrow. It’s just like Varric to assume he has the relevant information for any given situation. There is a momentary flicker of irritation that Varric would presume to know exactly what Noelle is looking for, but it doesn’t take long before she’s mentally chiding herself. Varric is a friend, first and foremost, and he cares about the Quarterly.

“Well,” Varric says, his tone dropping into the particular tone he reserves for storytelling, “How much do you know about how Empress Celene came to power?”

And just like that Noelle finds herself listening to yet another of Varric’s tale. Though most of the Quarterly office groan and grumble about Varric’s tendency to launch into long-winded tales, Noelle suspects that most of the Quarterly office secretly don’t mind at all. Varric turns story-telling into a fine art. First, his voice drops. Low, mysterious, lulling you in, before he begins deftly weaving a tale in front of your eyes. If Noelle were to close her eyes, she’d likely be able to almost envision everything Varric speaks of.

But she is in public, and outwardly she will not admit to enjoy it as much as she does. So she simply leans back and listens.

This time, the tale Varric tells is one of complicated and elaborate political machinations and assassinations. Celene’s claim to the throne is a tenuous one, surrounded by rumours of hired black hands and illegimate love affairs with her handmaiden. There are some, Varric explains, that feel as though Celene stole the throne from Orlais’s rightful leader, the Grand Duke Gaspard.

“Admittedly, Celene has brought new life to Orlais,” Varric says. “Thanks to her, Orlesian art is _booming_. Big plays, fancy theaters, the University of Orlais is doing better than it has in years. And, in no small feat, the people of Orlais are appreciating my literature. Not everyone seems to care, however.  Others argue that funding the arts will run the country dry, or that Celene made a mistake closing the country’s borders during the war, or that Orlais’s increasingly isolationist policies are going to damage the country far more than worldy. Everyone’s a critic, after all. So tensions are high, and it seems that there are more and more whispers on the street that Gaspard should rule Orlais. The more paranoid claim there is a civil war on the horizons. So, if she’s leaving the country despite all this, it begs the question of _why_.” Varric trails off there, with a little cock of his head. He looks at Noelle, as if waiting for her to answer.

“Presumably, she’s coming to New York for some sort of big publicity stunt. Didn’t Princess Zizzi try the same thing in ’34?” Noelle doesn’t wait for an answer. “Celene’s probably trying the same thing – get the approval of some wealthy Americans, get funding and public support. It gives Celene money, and a way to shut down anyone accusing her of being pro-isolationist. Right?”

Varric shrugs. “Makes as much sense as anything else.”

“Still, though,” Nelle says with a frown, “Seems a bit odd to leave the country when things are so tense politically.”

“Well, it’s not like she left Grand Duke Gaspie behind, yeah?” Sera looks between the two of them, then seems to realize that neither Noelle or Varric understand exactly what she means.  “He’s staying at that fancy Chateau or whatever, isn’t he?” Sera asks. Still, Noelle and Varric remain silent. Sera frowns. “A mate of mine – not like a _mate_ mate, if you know what I mean, but like a friend mate – works as a bellboy there. Says Gaspard’s had a room there for a few weeks. Keeps getting weird shit delivered and even weirder guests.”

“Huh,” says Varric.

“The Duchess Florienne’s been out for a while too,” Noelle adds.

“Sounds like quite the family get-together, then.” Varric scratches at his temple.

Sera slurps loudly on her coffee. “Better watch out when you see them, yeah? Orlesians are like,” she pauses, struggling with her choice of words. “Snakes. Yeah, snakes in like…fancy hats.”

“I’ll be careful, Sera.” Noelle smiles. “Thanks.”

Noelle doesn’t stick around The Red Jenny for much longer. After finishing her cup of coffee she heads home, turns on the radio, and picks up a book. For the next few days, this is how she spends her evenings. She curls up on her couch, underneath a warm knitted blanket, and reads. The end result is that by the next week she feels wholly over-saturated in Orlesian history and culture. It’s hardly useful, but it swirls around in her head during the week. When she runs errands, distantly some part of her brain is still thinking about Orlesian court proceedings, and when she grabs coffee with Cullen she’s thinking about the more melodramatic of Orlesian love-stories. The ones that involve sweeping comparisons to stars, and eternity, and gentle roses. She spends herself surprised with the amount of time she's spending with Cullen during the week. Each day it starts with work discussions, but quickly turns into general conversation and coffee runs. Between sporadic chats with Cullen about work, and so much additional information on Orlais, she has little trouble drafting the first half of her special Empress Edition article on Friday morning.  After that the day flies by. She purchases a mask at a costume store – simple, black, and entirely unassuming – and then she paces about for a while. Cullen had allowed her the day off work, to prepare and do whatever else she needed too as she'd be out late. With the afternoon news as background noise, Noelle puts her hair in rollers and starts getting ready at around 4. Mostly, what she does is apply her makeup three hours too early and then has to pace about her apartment looking unusually done up until it's time to leave.

She arrives at The Hanged Man at 7:30 to find Leliana lounging in a wingback chair Noelle is certain wasn’t there the last time she’d come to visit. Leliana is dressed in a shimmering, floor length gown, and browses idly through an old magazine while a dreamy jazz piece crackles through the radio. Noelle’s dress is draped over her arm, and when she'd grabbed it from her closet it felt like the right choice. It is, after all, her nicest dress. Upon seeing Leliana, however, Noelle feels like she is going to be hugely underdressed for the occasion. In her dress, Leliana sparkles in the dim lighting of the dressing room; under a spotlight she’ll shine like a diamond. The dress is a deep blue, nearly the colour of night, covered with a layer of glittery beads. Cap sleeves cover her shoulder, but the neckline dips low.

Softly, Noelle knocks on the door. Leliana looks up and smiles.

“Ah, just the woman I was expecting. Come in, come in. How are you?”

“I’m well,” Noelle says, “Yourself?”  She means to wait for Leliana to reply but she speaks without thinking. "Your dress is…radiant.”

“As well it should be,” Leliana says with a delighted little laugh, “Now, you go change! I shouldn’t be the only one dressed well, yes?” With an elegant flick of her wrist, she gestures towards an elegant screen divider in the corner of the room.

Noelle doesn’t argue. Once behind the screen, Noelle shimmies out of her skirt, letting it pool around her bare feet, and unbuttons her blouse. This is tossed into the corner haphazardly. Despite the screen shielding her from the rest of the room, she can’t help but feel vaguely exposed in just her undergarments. It doesn’t help that she seems to be standing directly below a vent that is currently blowing out chilly air. Gooseflesh prickles on her skin. As Noelle shimmies into her dress she can hear the sounds of Leliana puttering about in the room. Clattering on the vanity, humming to herself, opening and closing drawers. Noelle is fumbling with the zipper of her dress when she hears a rapping noise. At first, she thinks nothing of it. Probably just Leliana dropping something, she figures. But then, Leliana lets out a surprised “oh”.

Noelle freezes, tries to listen. Her hands are craned at an awkward angle while reaching for her zipper. It’s gotten stuck right between her shoulder blades, where it’s just close enough to brush with your fingertips but not close enough to grab.

“Cullen!” Leliana croons. “What a surprise!”

Noelle becomes, briefly, acutely aware of the way her heart pounds in her chest.

“Oh. Uh, my apologies, I should have called first,” Cullen says.

Noelle tugs at the zipper again. It won’t move at all.

“No, there’s no need to apologize” Leliana replies. Noelle tries to peak through the a small crack in the folding screen. It doesn’t work. “It’s good to see you, Cullen.”

“Oh, oh good.” Cullen says. Even without seeing him, Noelle can tell he’s uncomfortable. He’s probably blushing or scratching the back of his neck. “I just came to wish you both well tonight. Is Noelle – is she around?”

Noelle answers before Leliana can. “I’m here!” She calls out. “I’m here! I’m just-“ With a strained swear, she gives the zipper one final pull. “Getting dressed.”

“I hear Varric’s working on a new book,” Leliana remarks idly.

Noelle smooths out the fabric of the dress’s crinoline skirt and takes a deep breath. It's her finest dress, she knows she looks good in it. And yet she can't help but feel self-conscious. But she can't hide behind a screen all night just because Cullen is nearby. She takes  a deep breath. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you already know,” Cullen says. “I only just found out yesterday. He’s been worryingly vague…about…….it.” Cullen trails off as Noelle steps out from behind the screen. Slowly, his expression softens. He stares, seemingly transfixed, at Noelle. Like she’s art, something to be in awe of. Noelle finds her breath catching in her chest.

And just like that, the room seems to tilt on it’s axis.

Leliana almost fades into the background (but not before Noelle sees the bemused expression spreading across Leliana’s face), and Noelle is left alone with Cullen. She smiles, weakly. Perhaps it’s simply surprise that Cullen is here that is making Noelle feel so weak at the knees. But perhaps it’s something else. Regardless it begins to make her feel self-conscious. Pink begins to creep across Cullen’s cheeks. As if mirroring him, Noelle can feel her cheeks beginning to heat up as well.

“Hello.” Noelle lets out a flimsy laugh.

Cullen chuckles in response. “Hi.”

With a weak smile, Noelle lifts up her skirt as if about to curtsy. She tilts her head to the side. “Well? What do you think?” She’s trying to make a cutesy joke, perhaps to ease some of the tension between them. She can’t quite tell if it’s working.

“I think.” He looks at Noelle again, up and down, and though Noelle writes for a living she can’t find the words to describe his expression. It’s a number of small little things that culminate in him looking thoroughly overwhelmed and acutely aware of it.  “Noelle you look.” He stops, swallows thickly. Then he shakes his head, as if the word he had intended to use wasn’t good enough. “You look…nice.”

Almost immediately, Cullen cringes.

“That’s-” he starts. He sighs. “That’s not what-” Embarrassed, he groans as he runs his hand through his hair.

Nearby, Leliana stifles an audible laugh. This only seems to embarrass Cullen further, and Noelle has to bite down on her lip to keep herself from chuckling too.

Leliana only waits the briefest of moments before stepping forward. She looks between the two of them with a smile that Noelle can only describe as worrying. It’s a delighted smile, the grin of someone who has just discovered a marvelous new game.

“I think we understand what you’re trying to say, Cullen,” Leliana says gently. “However, since you’re here, why don’t you help Noelle with her mask? The things can be a fright to put on by yourself.”

Cullen appears quite grateful for the distraction. “Of course.”

He disappears behind the screen to grab Noelle’s mask. Leliana grabs her own from the vanity table. It’s a flashy thing – painted a dark blue, just a shade darker than Leliana’s dress, with painted peacock feathers covering the top of the mask. The bottom is the flat blue, with a faint trim of sparkling gold. Leliana turns her back to Noelle to face the vanity.

“You seem to have no trouble with yours,” Noelle observes dryly, as Leliana deftly ties hers on.

“Yes, well, I’ve had years of practice.” Leliana says airily. With the mask on to her satisfaction, she turns back to Noelle. “A little help never hurt anyone, after all.” Maybe Noelle is just seeing things, but it looks as if Leliana winks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if our car is ready.”

There is a brief moment where Noelle thinks nothing of Leliana’s departure but when Cullen steps forward with Noelle’s mask the thought vanishes. And Noelle becomes confident Leliana had winked at her. The thing is, with Leliana gone, it doesn’t take long for that strange _something_ to come back into the air. And all it really takes is the momentary jolt Noelle feels when her fingers accidentally brush Cullen’s as she takes the mask from him. Then suddenly it feels as if Cullen is both too close and not close enough.

Noelle holds the mask to her face, letting the two ribbons fall next to her face. Then she turns round, allowing Cullen to draw the ribbon back round her head. He does so slowly and Noelle feels the faintest brush of his knuckles against her temples, and the tips of her ears. His breath is warm on the back of her neck.

Noelle takes a steadying breath and closes her eyes.

It is impossible to tell if Cullen is struggling or simply taking his time with tying the ribbon into a knot, but regardless Noelle finds herself unwilling to speak up.  So she lets Cullen work carefully, and allows herself to briefly enjoy the feeling of Cullen brushing errant hairs away from the knot. But, of course, nothing takes forever, and soon the mask is snug on Noelle’s face. Cullen’s hands drop away.

She turns around to face Cullen, to thank him, but her words catch in her throat when she realizes just how close they truly are. They’re nearly toe-to-toe, in fact.

Cullen smiles softly. “You look lovely, Noelle. Truly.” Sure, his words are rushed and nervous, but they’re also overwhelmingly earnest.

“I-thank you, Cullen,” Noelle says, cheeks flushing red.

“You’re welcome.”

Noelle’s heartbeat is almost audible, she thinks. Just pounding away, and it seems like it just picks up each time she makes eye contact with Cullen. His expression is warm, and soft, and his eyes flick down towards her lips ever so quickly. Cullen smiles, then, his lips quirking up nervously.

Noelle smiles back, and finds herself unconsciously stepping just a bit closer. She could easily reach out now, grab his hand or-

Leliana raps at the door and Noelle’s train of thought derails abruptly. Both she and Cullen take a quick step back from each other.

“The car is ready if you are,” Leliana says. Though her words sound devious there is a very wicked glint in her eye.

“Of course,” Noelle says hurriedly. She looks at Cullen, quickly, before immediately averting her gaze elsewhere. Cullen appears to be doing the exact same thing. She moves to leave with Leliana, but before she can take more than two steps, Cullen grabs her arm.

She freezes.

“Noelle,” Cullen says. “You’ve earned this, congratulations.” He tilts his head to the side as he smiles.

Noelle says a breathless thank you before following Leliana to the car.

 

 

 

The drive to the Chateau feels longer than it really is because Leliana won’t stop casting sly looks at Noelle, and Noelle keeps wishing she could jump out of the car to get away from the scrutiny. At no point does Leliana say what’s on her mind, or ask whatever burning question she clearly has, and it’s unbearable.

So when the car pulls into the circular drive in front of the Chateau Royeaux, Noelle just about runs outside.

The Chateau Royeaux is a grand building, constructed in 1913 in a blatant display of wealth by millionaire Catcher Block. Trees surround the building, making it seem unusually green for the middle of Manhattan.

The circular drive wraps around a small fountain, and leads up hotel’s awned entrance. A forest green canvas, supported by poles, covers the stairs to the glass doorway. From there, the hotel rises upwards several stories to meet with sloped, green-tiled roofs and decorative turrets.  The Chateau Royeaux has hosted all manner of guests, from foreign diplomats to musicians, and is easily one of the most expensive hotels Noelle can think of. Fitting for an Orlesian Empress, she figures.

Nearby there is a couple having a picnic on the Chateau lawn, speaking softly. Actually, considering how meticulously groomed everything looks it is a surprise that there are even people allowed on the grass at all. There’s another man leading against the wall of the Chateau with a book open in his hand, and not far away from him is a familiar looking woman. It takes just a moment for Noelle to realize it’s the Duchess Florienne. She’s taking slow drags of a cigarette and staring vacantly off into the distance. Unlike everyone else on the lawn, however, Florienne is very clearly dressed formally. She wears a lavender gown with long white gloves, and a small hat adored with a lace cage and bow.

“Come,” Leliana says with a smile. Delicately she lifts the skirt of dress up off the ground, and heads towards the front doors. She wiggles her eyebrows at Noelle. “The Empress of Orlais is waiting.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Quarterly's Entertainment section is really bad, you guys. No one cares about it at all.  
> (Also Princess Zizzi is a reference to the film 30-Day Princess and not an actual historic event, though obviously actual royal tours have happened, and Catcher Block is a character in "Down With Love", a movie that parodies old 1960's romcoms and is hilarious.).


	14. Chapter 14

_**The London Herald** _

_**19th October 1943** _

_**WAR NEWS**_

 

_**Missing Soldier Found – Weary, But Alive!** _

_FRANCE – In a tale worthy of an on-screen adaptation, the lone survivor of the Kinloch Flyer crash has been found. Details are sparse, but we know the Kinloch Flyer went missing over occupied France several weeks ago. Presumed to have been shot down by a German plane, the wreckage of the Kinloch was found in the Mundat Forest. We are not privy to the names of those on the Kinloch at the time of the crash, but the bodies of all but one were found on site. The survivor was presumed captured by German forces._

_He was found by an allied Frenchman a few days ago – very much the worse for wear, but also alive. Reportedly he had spent those weeks hiding throughout the Mundat Forest and neighbouring towns, hiding from Nazi forces. The tenacity and bravery of our troops never ceases to amaze!_

 

**_Orlesian Empress Declines to Comment on Border Situation_ **

_FRANCE - The situation around Orlais's border is tense. Hundreds of refugees are trying to gain entrance to the country, trying to flee German cruelty. None of gotten in. Despite many efforts to contact the Orlesian Empress, no one has managed to contact her. We hope Orlais's neutral stance ends before it risks human lives._

 

 

 

Noelle shouldn’t be surprised that it takes Orlesians forever to get ready. Time is but a social construct meant to be bent horribly out of shape, after all. The moment Noelle enters the ballroom she is ushered to a seat backstage that is angled in such a way that Noelle has a full view of the luxurious space but it is difficult to see her. At present there isn’t much to watch. Hotel staff putter about, moving chairs back and forth seemingly at random, and Leliana is conversing quietly with the Louis Blues trio, a group of ensemble musicians. Their words don’t carry but Leliana seems very familiar with them. She laughs at one of their jokes, and touches him lightly on the arm. Noelle wonders if they’ve worked together before this.

She shifts, and the chair creaks under her. The chairs being arranged for the visiting Orlesians are lush chairs with red cushions and padded armrests; Noelle’s chair is plastic, and uneven. But, of course, she’s not the royalty here. And she was hardly formally invited. Which may have something to do with the stoic security guard standing nearby. Even the staff here are masked; security seems to be wearing white masks, serving staff blue, and the musicians the same deep blue as Leliana’s. It’s an interesting choice of uniform, if a depersonalizing one. The guard had barely even looked at Noelle after her arrival. Instead he stares steadfastly outward. In a way it’s worrying. Surely at this point there can be little trouble, Noelle figures, the Empress isn’t even here and yet the guard looks ready for anything.

Seemingly finished with her brief meeting, Leliana starts making her way over to Noelle. “Glamorous, yes?” She says, with a nod towards the expanse of ballroom around them. “I’ve only been here once, many years ago, but that was a different situation than this.” Leliana smiles.

“Have you worked with this band before?” Noelle asks. “You seem quite familiar.”

“We have practiced together, of course. We couldn’t quite get away with performing for royalty without rehearsing. But yes, we’ve worked together before. I believe it was in ‘44, or something like that. We performed for Duchess Florienne’s birthday. Oh, it was a tremendous party.”

“So you’re quite familiar with the Orlesian royal family, then?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Then can I ask why you think Celene is in New York?”

Leliana smiles coyly. “Now, now. I believe I was being spared from interviews for the night.”

“Off the record, then,” Noelle says. “As friends.”

This draws a small huff of a laugh from Leliana. “Very well, but only because you brought our friendship into this.” Leliana looks slowly about the room before leaning closer to Noelle. Her voice drops low. “It could be any manner of things, truthfully. Perhaps Empress Celene is truly just interested in America. But, I don’t believe it’s that simple. _Nothing_ Orlesian is ever that simple. There’s also been threats on the Empress’s life lately, so perhaps she is just stepping away from that for the moment.” Leliana shrugs. “Even I were to guess correctly there are sure to be at least a few more layers of reasons.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Noelle says.

“It’s exhilarating.” There is a faint flicker of excitement across Leliana’s face. “Now, come, before we do soundcheck I’d like you to meet the band. If that’s quite all right with you, sir.” The request is said to the nearby guard.

In response, he shrugs. “Don’t see why not.” The lack of Orlesian accent surprises Noelle.

“You’re American,” Noelle says.

The guard looks at her as if she’s slow. “Yup.”

Leliana pulls Noelle away before she can question the man further (Is he hotel staff? Was he hired for this? If so, why wouldn’t the staff be Orlesian security guards? Politicians frequently have their own security personnel, surely Orlais would do the same?).

The band is lounging when they approach. Leliana makes quick work of introductions. There is Louis, the trumpeter, who is sitting on the edge of the stage. Louis is sharing a bottle of rum with the drummer, Jehan. Both are older Orlesian men, though despite thick accents their English impeccable. From what Noelle quickly gathers, Louis and Jehan have played just about anywhere and everywhere. They’re hardly shy about their exploits either. Louis animatedly explains how they sunk a boat in an Amsterdam canal many years ago.

“We nearly drowned!” Louis says.

Before Louis can finish speaking, Jehan chimes in. “We did _not_ nearly drown. Why must you keep insisting we almost died?” Jehan tilts his head to face Noelle. “Quite clearly, we are alive and well. We did, however, embarrass ourselves in front of several lovely Dutch ladies.”

“I would have preferred drowning, in truth.”

“Oh?” Jehan says. “Is this why you keep drowning yourself in rum?” Jehan’s eyebrows arch, and Louis scowls.

Leliana steps in to stop the oncoming argument. “And this young man is Antonius.”

Behind them, in the shadows of stage left, Antonius looks up and nods. He plucks away on the strings of a stand-up bass. Unlike Louis and Jehan, Antonius is not Orlesian. Antonius has tanned skin, with jet black hair, and when he says hello his accent doesn’t quite match up.

“Forgive me if I’m being rude,” Noelle says. “But how does a Greek man wind up in a jazz trio with two Orlesians?”

“It is a funny story,” Antonius deadpans.

Noelle waits for him to elaborate but his attention has gone back to his bass, where he begins plucking away at a jazzy series of chords. When it becomes clear Antonius is not going to tell her, she looks to Louis and Jehan. The two men exchange glances.

“The tale is hardly _hilarious_ ,” Jehan says.

“Antonius is a very funny man,” Louis says. “Laughs at everything.”

Noelle looks back at Antonius. Though his body is swaying into the beat of his song, his expression is as neutral as a man at a funeral.

“It was..I’d like to say it was around ‘36. Louis and I took a trip down to Greece, enjoy some time off the road, you understand how it is.”

Noelle doesn’t, but she still lets Jehan continue.

“We were in some terrible bar, I recall. Antonius was playing there that night, and he was tremendous. Truly. Until some angry audience member tried to pick a fight. Turns out, Antonius is a wonderful bass player, but a _terrible_ fighter. Louis and I simply had to step in and help the poor man and, well, the rest is history.”

There is a significant gap in the tale, but Noelle doesn’t mention it.

Noelle spends a few more minutes speaking to the men to ask some general questions: did you know you were being scouted for this concert? When were you invited? Is it a lot of pressure to perform for the Empress? The group answers all questions happily, though Noelle notices that both Jehan and Louis respond to Antonius’s comments with far more enthusiasm than is warranted. After her questions have been answered, Leliana ushers Noelle back to her seat.

Sound check, unlike the several others Noelle has seen, is not an exciting affair. Leliana and the Louis Blues Trio work together well, so there’s no infighting on rhythm and beats, and the biggest issue is adjusting microphone levels. It’s rare that Noelle is invited to sound check, since it often does go poorly. But there was a night early in her entertainment section career where The Hanged Man management had allowed her to arrive early to watch and it had ended with Remi Vascal throwing up into a guitar case while his manager watched in horror.

Louis is enough of a professional that he hides his liquor when they’re supposed to perform, at least.

Sound check is just finishing up when Noelle hears one of the ballroom doors fly open. It thuds against the wall as the sound of determined footfalls make their way across the room.  The curtain Noelle is tucked behind obscures her view of the door, and she’s hesitant to lean out just in case it is the Empress. The warning about eye contact is fresh in her mind. On the stage, the band stills. Even if Noelle can’t see who just walked in, they’re clearly important.

“Am I the only one here?” A male voice asks.

“Ah - Yes, Grand Duke.” The maid, unlike the guards, is Orlesian. It explains the timidity in how she speaks to him.

The Grand Duke Gaspard sighs. “I see.”

“You may have a seat, Grand Duke.”

The Grand Duke steps into view. He’s dressed formally, with a gilded mask covering the upper half of his face. This does nothing to conceal his growing frown. He tugs, impatiently, at the cuffs of his sleeve. A maid flits around him nervously. She’s gesturing vaguely towards a seat on the far right, but he doesn’t take it.

“I suppose Celene hasn’t said when she’ll be arriving?” Gaspard says.

“No, Grand Duke.”

“Naturally. Are there any drinks?” Gaspard looks about the room. Noelle realizes not long after that there is no refreshment table set up, or any proper waiters lurking around. She’d expected well-dressed men carrying trays of champagne.

“The Empress requested that no refreshments be served until the show has started.”

Gaspard’s frown grows. “Then I’ll be in the lounge. Have someone come fetch me when Celene decides to make an appearance.”

He walks away before the maid can respond.

Noelle waits until the door has slammed firmly shut again before speaking. “So, that was the Grand Duke, huh?”

Leliana chuckles. “That it was.”

Noelle wants to ask if he’s normally so… _brisk_. But she is surrounded by people employed by the Orlesian Royals and thinks better of it. The guard near her does not seemed phased. He also does not look pleased, in general.  His scowl is nearly enough to discourage her from speaking to him.

“So.” She says, and the guard’s eyes flick towards her. “How does an American get a job in an Orlesian security detail?”

“How does a nosy thing like you get a job as a journalist?” The barbed tone slowly weakens as he realizes the stupidity of his question. He was not hired for his wit, clearly. Noelle gets the hint, however; he isn’t willing to discuss the matter.

Noelle sighs. Just enough to imply she’s displeased with his response, and simply sits quietly. The ballroom is the picture of opulence. The stage they are on is pressed against a far wall, and even behind the curtain Noelle gets a good view of the room around them. Paintings of landscapes are scattered about the white paneled walls. The ceiling is decorated with beveled lines, and accented with gold paint. It is easy to picture a grand ball being held here.

Much as Noelle tries to imagine this, the longer she sits in silence the more her attention shifts back to Leliana’s dressing room. She’d gotten terribly close to Cullen in there. And not in a harmless way. Because they’d stood near each other before, cramped nearly shoulder to shoulder in the line at the Red Jenny, or chatting in his office doorway, but Noelle struggles to figure out what changed in the dressing room. And why she liked it so much.

Noelle is spared from a self-realization by Celene’s entrance.

Celene enters little fanfare. The door opens, the staff go from startled to carefully neutral in a matter of moments, and Celene walks towards her seat. It is quite easy to guess which one is hers - a maid has place a high-backed chair with a velvet purple cushion covering the seat in the middle of the seating arrangement. Despite not wearing a crown, Celene looks ever inch an Empress. Her white-blond hair is pulled into an elegant chingon, with an expensive diamond hairpiece holding the hair in place. Noelle can guess that Celene spent a fortune on her dress - a floor length baby blue gown, made of shimmering fabric and covered in small gems that form an intricate pattern over the bust of the dress. She seems to _glide_ across the room. Head high, straight back, and an expression of absolute serenity across her face. Briefly, she glances up at the stage and her lips flicker up in a very small smile.

Leliana, Noelle notices, seems remarkably calm as she smiles back.

“Where are my cousins?” Celene asks. A maid nearby starts.

“Grand Duke Gaspard stepped out to the lounge, your Majesty. Duchess Florienne is outside, I believe.”

“Very well. Please, go fetch the pair of them, and please have the drinks brought in.” The maid nods, and wanders off. Celene takes her seat. “Lady Leliana, lovely to see you again.”

Leliana steps to the front of the stage and curtsies. “Empress Celene. It’s my pleasure. I trust you had an enjoyable journey?”

“I did, thank you.” Celene tilts her head to acknowledge the Louis Reid Trio. “It’s wonderful to see you three as well. It’s been too long since you were last home.”

“Thank you, Empress,” Louis says. “It’s been too long since you’ve been in the Big Apple, as well.”

There is something of a barb there, Noelle suspects. No one responds to it, but  this seems like the sort of thing it would be impolite to bring up.

Celene smiles at Louis, but it feels insincere. “It truly has.”

Celene and Louis do not exchange any other conversation as Gaspard and Florienne arrive in the ballroom. In fact, it seems as if they’re deliberately avoiding speaking to each other. With the Orlesian royals settled, Leliana and the band begin to play. The first several songs are Orlesian, and unfamiliar to Noelle. It does strike Noelle that she’s rarely heard Leliana speak her native tounge. For all she and Dorian quip about Orlesian being worse French, Leliana does make it sound beautiful. 

None of the Orlesian royals acknowledge each other at any point during the show. It seems tense, but given the current political situation that is hardly suprising.

A maid wheels in a cloth covered cart, serving as a drink serving station. It’s placed in the corner of the room, behind the three Orlesians, and almost directly in Noelle’s eyeline. Three champagne flutes are placed on a silver tray, and a large bottle of champagne is open next to it. The drinks are served in the traditional Orlesian way (and Noelle feels some relief that her reading almost pays off). It goes in order of ascending rank. The maid fills the glasses and brings the drinks one-by-one. The first goes to Florienne, the second to Gaspard, and the third should go to Celene. While the maid is handing Gaspard his glass, another woman in a maid’s outfit passes by the drink cart. Though it is difficult to see for sure, it looks as though she drops something in Celene’s drink. Just as quickly, the maid has turned on her heel and is out the door.

Noelle glances to the guard, who is staring blankly at Leliana. He’s clearly noticed _nothing_. She gestures furiously to beckon him over. The guard doesn’t notice.

“ _Hey_ ,” she hisses. The guard glances at her, irritation clear in his eyes.

“ _What?”_ he whispers back.

“That maid,” Noelle says, cocking her head towards the open ballroom. She feels a twinge of panic as she notices the maid is drawing near Celene. “She put something in the Empress’s drink.”

The guard frowns.

Noelle looks between the displeasing guard and the maid, who is now about a step away from the Empress of Orlais. She doesn’t have time to convince him. Before she has time to think, Noelle is on her feet and rushing to the front of the stage. She cuts past Leliana, who trails off mid-verse. Noelle stops just at the edge of the stage. Celene has the glass raised to her lips.

“Don’t drink that!”

 

         

 

As it turns out, Orlesians take the threat of poisoning very seriously.

As it also turns out, the Orlesian political system is so full of backstabbing it is common practice to accuse the person who points it out as the same person who orchestrated it. In a matter of moments after rushing to the front of the stage, she’s pulled off by several guards and dragged to a vacant hotel room. As she is forced out, she sees Celene pass the glass off to a nearby attendant, and hears Celene say something about testing it.

Because, apparently, Celene brought a person to check things for poison.

At the very least, her forced arrest is in a nice enough room. There’s a giant four poster bed, a widnow that overlooks the garden outside, and two cushy armchairs sitting round the fireplace. Two guards stand watch, rather shattering any illusion of peacefulness. One guard stands on the inside of the door, the other out in the hall.

“You can’t possible think I’ve done this,” she tells the guard in her room. “I was on stage, surrounded by people, all evening.”

The guard shrugs. “Doesn’t matter what I think, does it?” This guard, too, is American. 

“Well you could vouch for me! Speak with the guard who was on stage too, he was near me the entire time.”

“Which guard was that?”

"I didn’t get his _name_ ,” Noelle says. She slumps down into the chair and rubs wearily at her forehead. 

 The guard shrugs. “What’d he look like?”

 Noelle tries to think about it, but it doesn’t take long to realize that all the guards she’s seen look remarkable similar. “He was wearing a mask, it was awfully hard to tell. He was American.”

 “We’re all American, Ms. Trevelyan.” 

 Noelle frowns. "Why hire only American security guards?"

"Not really my place to ask why I'm gettin' hired."

Noelle groans loudly.  This is an inarguable nightmare. This was supposed to be just a regular concert. Write a fun piece on seeing the Empress of Orlais, beat out _The Golden City_ , easy-peasy. Though an assassination attempt would have papers flying off the shelves. Still, it will give tomorrow’s The Empress Edition a bit of a surprising twist. It practically writes itself! That is, if she ever gets out of the damn hotel. Noelle desperately wishes she could make a phone call. Dorian would get a kick out of this. They could make fun of the Orlesians and he could tell some fun Tevinter stories. That is, only if she and Dorian are on speaking terms, she supposes. She isn't entirely sure where they stand right about now. Regardless, she'd prefer uncomfortable silence with Dorian over this guard. He's, honestly, a terrible conversationalist.

“You have a family?” Noelle tries to ask him.

“Nope.”

“Hm. Hobbies?”

“Not really.”

The point being, he’s dreadful to talk to. 

“Do you have any idea how long I’m being held here for?”

The guard shrugs. “Wasn’t told. Suspect until after the concert is done though, that’s supposed to go on no matter what.”

Bloody Orlesians.

So Noelle has to sit, and wait, in uncomfortable silence for what feels like an eternity. There is a rap at the door after about an hour, though Noelle’s hope that she’s free to go is crushed the moment a expressionless man enters holding a notebook and a pencil.

“Have a seat,” he says to Noelle, despite the fact she’s already sitting. The man has an Orlesian accent as well. This man, too, is wearing a mask. His is a rather nondescript beige. All in all, he seems like a generally nondescript human being. His suit, though finely tailored, is brown, and his hair is almost entirely grey.

“What’s going on?” Noelle asks. The man shoos the guard out of the room.

“Nothing to worry about, we just have some questions for you Ms. Trevelyan.” The man sits down on a nearby chair. “I am Roul, personal attendant to the Empress herself. Please, speak truthfully.”

It’s comforting that he already takes Noelle for a liar.  

He takes a moment to compose himself, peering over his notebook. Then, he clears his throat, and asks: “Did you attempt to poison the Empress of Orlais?”

“No,” Noelle replies.

“Hm, interesting,” Roul says and jots something down. “The Empress’s drink had traces of cyanide in it. Where would one acquire something like that?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, Roul.”

“Surely, in a big city such as this acquiring illegal materials would be quite easy.” Roul raises an eyebrow.

Noelle shrugs. “I suppose so; I can’t say I’ve ever tried to look.”

Roul ‘hm’s. “Now, you’ve said it was a maid who dropped _something_ into the drink?” When Noelle nods, he then asks, “Did you happen to see what she looked like?”

Noelle blinks. Roul is staring very seriously at her. “She was wearing a mask,” Noelle says.

Roul writes this down. “Anything else?”

“The mask made it quite difficult to see anything else.”

“Of course. Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts this entire evening?”

This is beginning to feel like an elaborate joke. Noelle flatly mentions that the entirety of the band was on stage with her all night, and there was a guard right next to her as well.

Roul makes an interested noise. “This guard – did you happen to see what he looked like?”

“He was also wearing a mask!” Noelle can’t help the note of frustration that creeps into her voice.

Roul nods. “Of course, of course.”

The rest of Roul’s questions are along a similar vein (that is, vaguely convinced Noelle had done it), and by the time Noelle is ready to scream, he rises to excuse himself.

“That will be all, Ms. Trevelyan. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Once he’s out of the room Noelle lets out a very loud and very long sigh. Perhaps Roul was trying to irritate her into a confession. She could very easily see it working. Perhaps Orlesians are much better at identifying people wearing masks. Of course, since Noelle didn’t do it, it does leave the question of: who did? The maids seem to be Orlesian, so perhaps there it’s nothing more complicated.

But it’s also Orlais, so it’s almost definitely more complicated.

Of course, it could be Florienne, or Gaspard, or almost anyone else. It was just a matter of bribing someone to drop cyanide into a drink. It’s late, she’s thirsty, and hungry, and desperately wants to go to bed, and thinking about the matter is beginning to make her head hurt.

There is a knock on the door again. Noelle, thinking Roul is making a comeback, contemplates hiding under the bed to escape another line of questioning. But it isn’t Roul.

After one curt knock, the Empress Celene walks into Noelle’s room.

All Noelle can think is: _holy shit_.

She essentially leaps out of the chair. Noelle stumbles a bit as she rises but manages to not topple over completely. “Empress,” Noelle says weakly. Not entirely sure what to do with her body, Noelle manages a very stiff and awkward curtesy.

“Please,” Celene says, “Have a seat.”

Noelle sits back down gratefully.

Celene moves to sit across from her. It takes her a moment to settle into the chair. She adjusts her dress, shifts a moment more, and then straightens her back and looks at Noelle. Her eyes are a startling ice blue.

“I’m sorry.” Noelle blurts out. She isn’t for what, exactly. Everything, perhaps.

Celene offers a gentle smile. “There is no need to apologize for saving my life, Ms. Trevelyan. I’m quite grateful for it, in fact.”

“Oh,” Noelle says weakly. “You’re welcome then. I hope the concert wasn’t ruined for you.”

“On the contrary, it was quite nice to get the assassination attempt out of the way early in the evening.”

Noelle can’t tell if Celene is joking.

“I apologize for all of this,” Celene says, with an airy gesture to the room around them. “But, of course, one can’t be too careful. Such is the way of life.” Celene pauses for a moment, simply staring at Noelle. Noelle shifts uncomfortably. “I have come to offer you something. As a show of gratitude, and as an apology for you missing the show you came to see, I am willing to grant you a private interview.”

Noelle can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. Celene hasn’t done a private interview in _years_. “I,” Noelle starts. “Thank you, Empress.”

“It is the least I can do. Now, it cannot be tonight as I have other affairs to attend too. But I will have one of my attendants contact your newspaper - The Skyhold Quarterly, yes? – and try and arrange a date in the next few weeks. If that is agreeable to you, that is.”

Noelle nods numbly. “Of course.” She would be foolish to say no.

“Now,” Celene says, almost as if Noelle hadn’t spoken. “These is, naturally, one condition.”

Naturally. Noelle can hazard a good guess as to what it will be.

“It would not reflect well on this trip if people find out there was attempt on my life so earlier into my visit. If you wouldn’t mind printing a story about how lovely this evening was, I would indebted to you greatly.” Celene smiles.

This is, of course, not much of a choice and Celene knows it. Only an idiot would pass up the chance to interview royalty. And staying silent on tonight’s excitement is hardly going to hurt anyone.

So Noelle agrees.

Celene’s smile widens. “Wise choice, Ms. Trevelyan. It was a pleasure to speak with you. You will find there is a car out front for you, one of my attendants will take you home. We’ll be in touch.”

 

 

On Noelle’s way out of the hotel, she passes by a handful of guards speaking in the lobby. They’re talking in low voices, huddled round each other, but Noelle manages to pick out some of what they’re saying as she walks past.

“-think Gaspard’s furious-“

“-Have our heads, that’s what-“

“-can’t lose this job”

The most Noelle gleams from this is that they’re likely working for Gaspard, but she doesn’t stick around to mill on it further. It has been a long day, and she think about matters in the comfort of her home. Outside, a car idles in the drive. It's driver is a silent fellow, who grunts when Noelle says her address, and speaks no further. Noelle stares out the car window and tries to stay awake for the drive.

Distantly, Noelle thinks about what she’ll need to write for tomorrow. The assassination attempt takes up much of her imagination - the who, the what, the why, it makes for an absolutely rollicking story, but also one she can’t tell quite yet.

She thanks the driver absently as he pulls up outside of her apartment. He grunts again.

She’ll need to call Cullen first thing in the morning, she figures. It won’t change how the special edition is printed, at the very least. Still, now Noelle needs to falsify an entire evening. Perhaps she should try and call Leliana early, to at least get the basic facts of the concert correct.

 She’s so wrapped up in her thoughts that, as she draws near her door, she misses the sound of low voices coming from inside her apartment. What she doesn’t miss is that her door is ajar, and creaks open as she grabs the doorknob. When she pulls her hand back in surprise, she notices something wet, warm, and red on her hands.

Blood.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orlais is EXHAUSTING to write about. But I'm also reading about French monarchies for class so I think the whole thing has just become wildly tiring (fuck you 100 Hundred Years War).


	15. Chapter 15

**_Skyhold Quarterly_ **  
**_February 8th, 1947_ **

**_CLASSIFIEDS_ **

  
_WANTED: SINGER SEWING MACHINE. Good quality. Willing to pay $40. Contact Wynne at Bannorn Children’s Home._

_LOST: TABBY CAT. Answers to Ser Pounce A Lot. Orange, fluffy, and missing right ear. If found contact Anders at Lowtown Medical Clinic._

_CLEANER NEEDED: MAN looking for cleaner to take care of house while wife is away. Applicants must provide 2 references and be able to work the occasional Saturday. Starting wages are $28.11 weekly._  
_Apply to: Alistair Therin, 484 Redcliffe Avenue._

_JOB OPPORTUNITY: SECURITY needed at Chateau Royeaux for private event. Discretion is a must. Applicants must be of legal age. Those interested should apply to the front desk of the Chateau Royeaux._

 

 

 

 

The blood is warm on Noelle’s palm.

Panic grips at her. Even just touching the door has opened it further, and her door creaks noisily. Any chance she had of sneaking away is gone. There is a brief moment where Noelle thinks this is the end, as one does in a situation like this. It seems logical that whoever is inside her apartments is likely to kill her. Distantly, a more active part of her imagination suggests that perhaps it’s an Orlesian sent by Celene.

Then, though, a voice calls out from inside her apartment. “Noelle? Is that you?”

It’s not entirely reassuring that she knows the voice.

Safe with the knowledge she isn’t about to die, Noelle steps slowly into her apartment. There is a trail of blood on her floor. Noelle’s stomach wrenches at the sight. The trail leads to her living room, ending at the feet of Dorian Pavus. Noelle’s stomach, already tense, flips. Dorian’s expression is intense, lips drawn into a thin line and a knot of worry is between his brows.

“Dorian!” Noelle says, seeing his bloody hands and weary expression. For a moment all words catch in her throat as her heart proceeds to try and leap out through it. “Are you alright? What the hell is going on?” Then her attention shifts, and she notices a hunched over man on her couch. More blood seems to be drying around his feet. It takes a moment to place him as The Iron Bull; his expression is a little more drawn than it had been when they’d last met, and a little paler too.

The whole scene is both panic-inducing and absurd in equal measure. There is a mob boss who appears to be in the process of bleeding out on her couch, and clenched in one of his massive hands is one of Noelle’s bottles of brandy. Her expensive brandy, too, Noelle notices. Dorian stands next to The Iron Bull, and despite the tense situation, he looks an awful lot like a child who was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Jesus Christ.” Noelle manages. She isn’t sure how she should respond, besides a vague frantic hand gesture to the chaos around her.

In an unusual moment of self-reflection, Dorian looks down at himself, then towards The Iron Bull, then back at Noelle, and seems to recognize that what is going on is very much not normal. “I...I apologize for the surprise.” He says. His tone is surprisingly stilted. 

The Bull slumps back with a grunt, and Noelle catches sight of a hole on the side of the jacket that’s a deep shade of red. A vague, startled squeak escapes Noelle. “Is he-” Noelle starts, then stops. Saying alright would be pushing it. “Just. What happened?”

There’s a pause then, and Dorian and Bull exchange a look. “Bull was shot,” Dorian says, as if Noelle would not have deduced that herself. There is a bit of a hitch in Dorian’s voice as he says it, and Noelle has a fleeting thought about this being part of what she meant by getting attached. “What happened…I can explain it later,” Dorian continues. “Right now, he needs medical attention, stitches most likely, and a hospital is out of the question. They’ll ask questions that we aren’t able to answer.” Dorian trails off then. He looks uncharacteristically helpless in this moment.

Behind Dorian, on her coffee table, she can see her first aid kit lying open. Blood is smeared across the kit and many of the supplies inside it. Though she’s hardly eager to get a better look at a bullet wound, she does peer around and spots a bloodied bandage under the hole in Bull's jacket. Dorian is no medic, Noelle knows, and she isn’t either. Noelle also knows is that bullet wounds aren’t to be trifled with. “I’m sorry,” Dorian repeats falteringly. “For breaking in and all of this. But we didn’t…we had no where else to go.”

Noelle doesn’t hesitate. “What do you need me to do?”

Dorian and Bull look at each other. Bull arches an eyebrow, and Dorian appears to take this into consideration before offering an incremental shake of his head. This wordless conversation continues just long enough for Noelle to feel alienated. Then, Dorian turns to Noelle.

“Call Cullen,” Dorian says.

With a mob boss bleeding on her couch, Noelle doesn’t stand still to question the matter further. Still, as she nears her phone, she finds herself asking: “Cullen? Why?”

Of course, Noelle hardly has a better idea of who to call. She knows some ladies who were nurses in the war, none of whom she wants to drag into this. But Dorian suggest Cullen with surety; if that is the man they want, it is the man they will get.

“He’s had some experience with…” Dorian starts to explain, but trails off. “He’s better with his hands.”

It explains little, but Cullen answers the phone too quickly for Noelle to get a word in. 

“Hello, Cullen Rutherford speaking.”

The moment she hears his voice she realizes she doesn’t know what to say. How much information is too much? Should she jump in with ‘The Iron Bull is currently bleeding all over my couch’? That just warrants more questions, and the matter requires urgency. “It’s Noelle,” she manages lamely. “Uh, Noelle Trevelyan.”

  
Bless his heart, Cullen seems to pick up the hesitation in Noelle’s tone. Or, perhaps, he simply noticed that Noelle felt the need to add her surname, as if there was another Noelle that would be calling Cullen this late at night. “It’s late, is everything alright? How was the concert?”

  
“It was-” Noelle stops, then frowns. Briefly, she mulls over what she wants to say. “That’s not important right now. Could you…would you come over, please?” Christ, Noelle sounds a little desperate. And she is, honestly, because Noelle is not equipped for this.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Noelle sighs with relief as she hangs up the phone. Though, it may still be some time. Noelle figures that at this time of night, it will take probably an hour to get from his place to hers (unless Cullen has a car she isn’t aware of). At this point, Bull is looking alarmingly pale and Dorian has begun to fret outwardly. The hand he’s using to put pressure against Bull’s side is shaking ever so slightly, and though it’s hardly subtle neither Bull or Noelle mention it. Instead, Bull tries to make idle conversation as he takes huge sips from Noelle’s bottle of brandy.

“I mean, been shot worse than this before,” Bull says slowly. “But, still, I figure this shit’ll need stitches.”

Makeshift stitches is far from Noelle’s area, but she knows enough to grab her sewing needles and begin to boil water. This is absolutely not what her mother intended when she gave Noelle those needles for Christmas a few years back, but they’ve been gathering dust so this is better than nothing. Still, Bull is looking worse, and sounding drunker, and Dorian is beginning to run his hand through his hair with little regard to mussing it up. This is a sure sign Dorian is losing his composure.

“While we’re waiting,” Noelle says slowly, crossing the room to take a seat in her armchair. “Why don’t you tell me exactly a mob boss came to be bleeding on my couch?”

Bull blinks at her, mouth opening slightly. Noelle begins to wonder if she’d said something strange. She raises both eyebrows while looking at Bull, a silent what? Bull’s mouth snaps shut, and he tilts his head to stare at Dorian. Rather suspiciously, Dorian is avoiding eye contact.

Then, slowly, Bull says: “You didn’t tell her?”

“Tell me what?” Noelle frowns.

Dorian makes a frustrated sound. “I was trying to keep her out of this.”

“Keep me out of what?” Noelle asks. When neither respond, she adds, “I am right here, you two.”

This, too, falls on deaf ears. “She’s pretty in it now, Dorian,” Bull says. He makes a pointed gesture to the whole scene around them. “Not a bad idea to tell her.”

Dorian takes a quick look at Noelle before turning back to the Bull. His expression is scrunched up in irritation. “I rather suppose I have to know, don’t I?” Dorian’s tone is accusatory. Bull gives a half-hearted shrug.

“Tell me what?” Noelle repeats. This time her tone is laced with enough irritation to warrant their attention.

Bull lifts his left arm to pat Dorian’s shoulder. The gesture, presumably, is meant to be encouraging, but it fails as Bull hisses sharply at the pain in his side. Slowly, he lowers his arm and lightly knocks his fist into Dorian’s leg. Dorian scowls.

“Noelle.” Dorian exhales heavily. He shifts, so he’s facing Noelle with his back partly to Bull, and folds his hands nervously in his lap. “The Chargers aren’t who you think they are.”

Dorian stops to look at Bull quickly, only turning back when Bull has nodded.

“They’re cops.”

There is a moment where Noelle just…stops. Her brain fizzles out into static as she stares as the two men on her couch and tries to wrap her mind around the past few months. All the times she’d spoken to Dorian about The Chargers, or heard the stories in the news, or even the rare occasion she’d spoken to the Bull – she tries to parse through her memories for a sign, something that she missed. Because this – she had no idea.

The Iron Bull takes a huge swig of brandy, belches, and then winces.

Noelle’s face screws up in confusion. “I’m sorry. What?”

“It’s quite a long story,” Dorian says. His attention is mostly on Noelle now, but he keeps casting quick worried looks back towards Bull (who seems rather determined to convince Dorian that he is fine, despite all evidence to the contrary).

“We’ve got time,” Bull says.

Dorian fusses with his hair. He gives every impression that he would like to drag his heels on this, but after he’s composed himself, he starts to talk. Carefully and slowly, he explains how he’d met Bull at a pub months ago, after witnessing some form of tense meeting between Bull and another boss. Dorian had recognized The Iron Bull from a brief stint on the police beat and apparently managed to pull enough strings to join the Chargers. Noelle gets the impression that Dorian is still leaving things out, such as which strings he had to pull, or any concrete examples of the Chargers activities.

What Dorian does tell her is this: The Chargers are an undercover police task force, who are in the middle of infiltrating the New York lyrium trade, and trying to discover who, exactly, is making it, and who’s running the whole show.

“This lyrium trade is a very complicated machine, with dozens of different parts,” Dorian says. “But at the end of the day, there is still someone driving the whole damn thing, but we just need to find out who.”

“Yeah,” Bull interjects. He’s nearly finished Noelle’s brandy now, and he holds the neck of the bottle limply in his hand. “We’re just a cog in a very shitty machine at the moment, but we’re getting close. Or, we were.”

“Were?” Noelle asks.

“Today…didn’t go quite as we expected,” Dorian says, with a small little wince.

“Evidently,” Noelle says.

Bull snorts.

A silence begins to settle, as Dorian fumbles with his hands and Noelle just thinks. She has questions, because who wouldn’t, but she isn’t sure if she wants to ask them. Even if Dorian is working with cops, in all likelihood they’ve done some unsavoury things and Noelle can make a pretty fair guess that Dorian is hoping she doesn’t try and bring that up. Dorian’s never really been one for complete, raw, honesty, especially in situations like these. Noelle’s known Dorian for years and still only heard fragments of his time as a soldier, and that only comes out after a few drinks.

Maybe Noelle should feel angry. It’s a big lie. And there’s lots of moral grey areas here ripe for questioning, or indigence. But Noelle isn’t angry, surprisingly, and there’s only a little ache of pain that she was lied too. Lying for the sake of a story is something Noelle can definitely understand.

“Shit,” Noelle says finally.

Dorian chuckles softly. “That about sums it up. And.” Dorian swallows. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

For a moment Noelle is left speechless. Genuine Pavus apologies are rare, let alone ones that happen in the company of others.

“I’m sorry, too,” Noelle says. “For being so hard on you. I should have trusted in your judgement.”

Dorian huffs softly and shakes his head. “No, it’s” - he is cut off by a knock at the door.

 

 

 

The arrival of Cullen is a relief for almost everyone; it’s both a save from an emotional conversation and much-needed medical assistance for The Iron Bull. It is less of a relief to Cullen, who looks panicked the moment Noelle opens the door.

Noelle grins weakly as she opens the door. Cullen stands in front of her, out of breath, as if he’d jogged at least part of the way. Clearly he’d hardly taken the time to dress, as his shirt is buttoned up haphazardly, part of his shirt is untucked, and his hair is a curly mess.

“Jesus,” Cullen says, the worry on his face clear as day. He takes a step towards her, hands reaching out as if to touch, but he stops. “Noelle, there’s – are you – what happened? Are you hurt?”

Noelle blinks, then follows Cullen’s gaze. He’s staring at her midsection, at her now blood stained dress. Likely she’d wiped her hands at some point and hadn’t realized (distantly, Noelle laments that this is one of her few nice dresses). Her hands, too, are stained red.

“Oh!” Noelle says, realization dawning. “No, it’s not mine. I’m fine. It’s - well, just come inside, please.” She steps aside, gesturing Cullen inside with a sweep of her hand. She watches Cullen’s expression change from panic, to confusion, to a sort of bewildered alarm in a matter of seconds. She wonders how she looked when she first stumbled upon the scene.

Noelle closes the door, and locks it behind her. She waits, and listens, as Cullen goes through the same conversation as she did not too long ago. With some minor variations.

Cullen begins, for example, with: “What the hell?”

And Dorian explains the same things he explained to Noelle - bullet wound, needs stitches, no hospital, and then he also ends it with an apology. “I’m sorry we had to call you, Cullen.”

“No,” Cullen shakes his head. “I’m glad you did.”

It only takes Cullen one look at the wound to surmise that it does, in fact, need stitches. Noelle is impressed by Cullen’s calmness in the face of the situation. There’s hardly any hesitation at all. He tells Noelle what to get ready with a steady voice and determinedly calm expression. Noelle can’t quite match that, but she does try to not panic as she readies the needle and thread for Cullen. It’s hardly the pinnacle of medical treatment, admittedly, but it will have to do. Still, as absorbed in this as Cullen seems he manages to flash Noelle a reassuring smile as he takes the threaded needle from her hand.

When Cullen speaks next, it’s slowly, as though most of focus is fixing up The Iron Bull. “So, I take it the meeting tonight did not go as planned?”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Cullen knows the situation. Dorian couldn’t exactly leave work to charge around with The Iron Bull without his bosses permission, after all.

Bull grimaces. “Not quite. Our distributor brought some friends.”

“And when you left, were you followed?” Cullen asks.

It’s a thought that never occurred to Noelle - that they could have been trailed here. Thankfully, before she can worry about it in detail, both Dorian and Bull are shaking their heads.

“We made sure we weren’t,” Dorian says.

“Good,” Cullen says. “Or, as good as it can be, I suppose.”

Bull lets out a low grunt as Cullen begins sewing the wound shut. For the briefest of moments, he grimaces, but he takes another huge swig of brandy and starts talking. He’s nearly finished the bottle now, and between that and blood loss, he looks visibly impaired. “Where’d you learn this? Didn’t think RAF guys were quite so well-versed in first aid.”

“Yes,” Cullen says tersely, “Well. Some of us needed to adapt.” He doesn’t look away from Bull’s side.

“No, I get that,” Bull says, and it occurs to Noelle that between the blood loss and the drinking Bull seems strikingly out of sorts. Not that she knows what an “in sorts” Bull looks like, but his speech is slurred and eyes are unfocused. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, after all.”

Cullen hums in absent-minded agreement.

“Hey,” Bull says. He speaks as though he’s just thought of something. “You were one of the guys on the Kinloch Flyer, right?” Cullen stills, but only for the briefest of seconds. Next to her, Dorian inhales sharply. Bull doesn’t wait for Cullen to answer. “An old war buddy of mine was the one who found the wreck. Christ.” Bull lets out a low whistle. “Miracle anyone survived the crash at all, let alone the woods around.”

Noelle is missing some context but even she can see this conversation is quickly going in a direction no one wants it too. Bull seems to remain oblivious to the tense line in Cullen’s shoulders, or the way no one seems to be responding to him. Thankfully she isn’t the only one, and Dorian steps forward and snatches the bottle of brandy from Bull.

“That’s it,” Dorian says, sharply, over Bull’s noise of protest. “You’re cut off.” Under his breath, as he places the bottle on the kitchen counter, Dorian swears, “Christ almighty.”

As he returns to the group he makes eye contact with Noelle and offers an apologetic grimace. Then, to Cullen, he says. “Sorry about that, Cullen. He’s lost a considerable amount of blood, and apparently half of his senses.”

“It’s fine,” Cullen says, even though it clearly isn’t.

The Kinloch Flyer rings a few bells for Noelle; lots of papers had used the story of an example of German savagery, and the perseverance of the Allied troops. It had been so blown out of proportion that Noelle had begun to believe it was all an elaborate propaganda tactic. The names of those on the Kinloch had never been publicly released, either. Given the tension in the room, Bull was right about Cullen surviving the crash. Which would mean-

Well, it would mean it’s no surprise Cullen has trouble sleeping.

“No, hey, it’s not.” Bull is staring intently at Cullen, as if he’s struggling to focus. “That was shitty of me. Probably shouldn’t’ve drank so much brandy - it’s good shit, Ms. Trevelyan.” Bull rubs his hand over his face. “Shouldn’t’ve gotten shot today either, Christ.”

“Yes.” Dorian pats Bull’s shoulder twice and lets his hand settle there afterwards. “That’s slightly less your fault.”

Cullen works in tense silence after Bull’s attempt at conversation. To his credit, he tries to appear unaffected, but it’s clear in the tense line of his shoulders and the way his jaw is clenched that he’s holding something back. Noelle isn’t the only one who has noticed, either. She and Dorian have both moved out of the way, standing near Noelle’s bedroom door, and Dorian keeps casting furtive looks in Cullen’s direction. Noelle gently elbows Dorian, and once she has his attention tilts her head towards Cullen and raises an eyebrow. _Is he okay?_

Dorian gives an incremental shrug in response.

Noelle frowns.

No one speaks while Cullen works. Bull seems focused on staying silent, and may in fact be falling asleep, and Noelle simply isn’t sure what to say. It’s a difficult tension to break. Out of the corner of her eye, Noelle takes another look at Dorian. When he isn’t staring worriedly at Cullen, he’s doing the same towards Bull. Noelle reaches out, places a hand on Dorian’s arm.

“He’ll be alright,” she says, softly.

She had meant to be quiet, but either she wasn’t or Bull has phenomenal hearing, because Bull immediately chimes in with: “I’m doing great, Dorian!”

The shaky thumbs up he gives them indicates otherwise.

“See?” Noelle tells Dorian, with a wry smile. “He’s great.”

The smile Dorian returns is a little weak, but Noelle takes it as a victory.

Not long after, Cullen makes a vaguely triumphant sound as he finishes stitching up the Bull’s side. Quickly, he cleans as best he can and recovers Bull’s side with a bandage.

“There,” he says as he stands up. “Likely the doctors could have a done a better job, but given the circumstances it should do fine.” He takes a breath and looks at Noelle. “Is there a place I can step outside after I’ve cleaned myself up? I’m afraid I need some air.”

“Of course,” Noelle says softly. “Uh, if you just go through the window there you can use my fire escape.”

“Thank you.”

Dorian and Noelle exchange a worried look as Cullen washes his hands in Noelle’s kitchen sink. It’s apparent the mention of his past has rattled him, but he’s also doing his best to hide it, so Noelle is hesitant to do anything. However, once Cullen has closed her window behind him, Noelle can’t help but start to follow him. She only makes it a few steps before Dorian grabs her arm to stop him.

“Give him a minute.”

A wave of exhaustion hits Noelle, and she slumps against Dorian’s side. A startled huff of a laugh escapes him before he wraps his arm around Noelle’s shoulder and squeezes. Wearily, Noelle rubs her hands over face. Upon pulling her hand back, she sees the dried blood on her hands and frowns.

“We look like we’ve committed a murder,” she remarks. 

Dorian snorts. “We do, don’t we?”

Across from them, Bull’s eyes are drooping shut and his head is dropping down. If not for the way he keeps shaking himself awake, he could pass for a dead body. Her white couch is probably ruined, she thinks. How she’ll get rid of it without attracting the attention of the entire apartment complex is a problem for a later day. Perhaps for now she can just flip the cushions over and cover the back with a blanket.

“Probably best we get washed up,” Dorian says, staring at his own messy hands. With a small smile, he gestures towards the bathroom with a small tilt of his head. “You first, Lady Macbeth.”

“You go ahead,” Noelle says. “I’m going to slip into something a bit more comfortable.”

 

 

 

Noelle quickly changes into a pair of trousers and a blouse. By the time she’s done, Dorian has finished washing up and is in the midst of using a cloth to scrub at some blood spattered on Bull’s face. Bull is swatting at Dorian, as if to shoo him away, but it’s apparent it’s just to save face. There’s no effort in it at all, and it seems as if he’s fighting a smile. As endearing as the scene is, the absence of Cullen worries Noelle. He’s been outside for some time now. She can't fault him for wanting some air. Having the past dredged up is hardly ever an enjoyable experience. Still, she worries. He's had his moment by now, and Noelle is hardly going to let him brood outside on the fire escape all night. 

“Hey,” Bull says, as Noelle starts towards her window. He doesn’t seem to be any more sober than he was earlier, but he at least seems repentant. “Tell him I’m sorry, yeah? I don’t know what came over me.”

“I think it was a something like a bottle of brandy,” Dorian mumbles as Noelle climbs through the window.

 Noelle's fire escape is an old rickety thing, worn down from years of overuse. The Ostwick Apartments have, to Noelle's knowledge, never experienced a serious fire (though her neighbour's cooking does routinely set off the fire alarm), but in the summer's the fire escape is the hot spot of the complex. Across the courtyard from Noelle's place a woman sets up blankets and pillows on  her landing and spends her evenings curled up outside, and the teenagers two floors down like on the edge and let their feet dangle in the air. At this time of year, however, Noelle and Cullen are the only ones outside.

Cullen stands near the railing of the fire escape overlooking the courtyard. He’s white knuckling the railing and staring blankly ahead, not even turning when the window clicks shut behind Noelle. She stops for a moment and stands near the window.

“Hey,” she says, finally. This gets Cullen’s attention, though he only really looks at her for about a second. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Cullen replies absently.

It’s a lie. And not a good one, either. Regardless, Noelle doesn’t call him on it. Instead she walks next to him and rests her elbows on the railing. She, too, stares ahead (truthfully, she is too worried to make eye contact with him). Down below, the snow is beginning to melt away and reveal cobblestone paths and the wilted remains of a garden.

“I’m sorry,” Noelle says. She isn’t sure for what. Everything, maybe. “I didn’t know.” The fact that the Kinloch Flyer isn't a myth in upsetting enough, let alone that it happened to Cullen. Nervously, she bites her lip.

Cullen’s laugh is short and humourless. “I wasn’t exactly trying to broadcast it.”

“No, no, of course not, but.” Noelle exhales. “You’re a war hero, Cullen.” He doesn’t look as if he believes her, but Noelle continues regardless. “My brother just survived the war, and just that was the talk of the family. But what you went through-”

Cullen’s shoulders tighten. Noelle abruptly rethinks her choice of words.

“Some of the soldiers I interviewed - they’d brag about just about anything, even the smallest accomplishment. Stuff like not stealing surplus morphine. So, I suppose I’m just curious why you kept yourself out of it?”

Cullen snorts, and his lips almost twitch into a smile. “You, curious?”

Noelle bumps her shoulder into his and huffs a laugh. “Oh, shush.”

There is a moment, brief as it may be, when the two make eye contact. Just as quickly, Noelle averts her gaze back to her hands. For safety’s sake, she clasps them together to fidget with her hands; it’s that, or make a fool of herself by grabbing his.

“You don’t need to tell me,” Noelle says. “If you don’t want too. Just tell me it’s none of my business and we can move on.”

“It’s fine.” Cullen runs his hand through his hair. Some loose curls fall onto his forehead. “It’s just…when the war was over, after everything that had happened, and everything I had done – I couldn’t stay. And when I came here no one knew who I was, and I liked that. It was like I had a chance to start over, become a new man. I don’t think I did a very good job of it at first. But…people change when they know. They act like I’m fragile or a thing to be pitied.” Cullen rubs his thumb over a scar on his palm. “Perhaps I should have told you sooner. But I liked the way you looked at me.” Cullen pauses then, as if considering his next words. “Like you liked me.”

There are a thousand things Noelle wants to say, but they all get jumbled up and catch in her throat. At first, she wants to start with “I do like you”, but then she’s hit with the jarring realization of just how much she likes him, and it sort of snowballs from there. There is also the question of why learning this would make Noelle stop liking him. And regardless of Noelle’s intention, she still just flounders there while Cullen stares at his hands.

She hardly has time to get her wits before Cullen is pushing off the railing and stretching out. He casts her a sidelong glance. “It’s probably about time we go back inside.”

“Of course,” Noelle says faintly. As she walks to the window with Cullen she feels a bit as if she’s missed a chance at something. They both reach for the window at the same time. It’s nothing as dramatic as their hands overlapping, but there is the definite brush of skin and Noelle definitely pulls back a bit too sharply.

“Sorry,” she says, but Cullen’s attention has shifted. He’s staring through the window, eyebrows narrowed and mouth starting to open.

“Perhaps,” Cullen says slowly, “We should give them a minute.”

Noelle frowns and follows Cullen’s gaze. Very quickly, she finds her expression mirroring Cullen’s.

They’re kissing. Bull and Dorian, right on Noelle’s couch. Dorian is basically in the Bull’s lap, with Bull’s hand in Dorian’s hair. It’s not particularly rowdy or obscene, but it is definitely intimate (and, in fact, far more intimate than Noelle ever wanted anyone to get on her couch).

Noelle bites her lip to stifle a startled laugh and looks away. “That would be best.”

Cullen’s cheeks have turned a bright shade of pink and he’s looking pointedly at the ground, but there’s a quirk to his lips and a tremor in his shoulder that make it look as if he’s finding the situation just as absurdly amusing as Noelle is. Once they’ve composed themselves, Cullen sighs and looks at Noelle.

“How was the concert? I can’t believe I forgot to ask.”

She can hardly fault him; there was simply too much going on when he arrived to truly focus on it. Noelle has hardly thought about it these past few hours. So Noelle makes herself comfortable, leaning back and resting her elbows on the railing, and gives Cullen a condensed version of events. The Greatest Hits of the evening, which doesn’t dwell on the eternity Noelle spent in a hotel room. Cullen listens raptly, and at the end of it, lets out a low whistle.

“That’s….” Cullen trails off and shakes his head. “Completely unbelievable.” With a small laugh, he leans forwards to lean against the edge of the fire escape. “You go in for a concert and uncover a political scandal. You have quite a knack for this.”

Noelle laughs. “It certainly seems like I do.”

She tilts her head to the side to look at Cullen. He’s staring at the courtyard again, though now his expression is a bit more relaxed, and the moonlight casts his face in a soft light. Something twists in Noelle’s chest. Does he genuinely believe she doesn’t care for him now? The thought bothers Noelle more than she thought it would.

“Hey,” Noelle says, softly. She moves so she’s facing Cullen. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Yes,” Cullen says with a small shrug. “Well.” There’s a pinkish tinge to his cheeks again, and he focuses his gaze at his intertwined hands.

“Truly, it’s appreciated.”

Cullen doesn’t respond to this but his lips quirk upwards slightly.

“And, Cullen.” Noelle reaches out to rest her hand over Cullen’s wrist. She rationalizes it’s a safer choice than his hand. Instantly, he freezes. “About what you said earlier.” He starts to speak, to cut her off, but Noelle doesn’t give him the chance. “I still like you. Your past doesn’t change that one bit.” She squeezes Cullen’s wrist and smiles.

Perhaps it’s something in the way Cullen’s smile goes a bit wobbly, or the way he swallows thickly, or maybe it’s the strange thrill she gets from the feeling of her hands on his wrist, but now that Noelle has begun to talk she can’t find herself wanting to stop. And why wouldn’t she? Of course she likes Cullen, she likes him quite a bit, though this seems like an odd time for the depth of her feelings to strike her. The lateness emboldens her. The part of her brain that would warn her off, let her worry about his reciprocation, is silenced by the here and now. By Cullen, in front of her, somehow believing that Noelle will think less of him, and by her own urge to convince him that’s almost completely impossible. Noelle leans forward an inch and moves her hand to cover his. Cullen remains stock-still, staring at his hands as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Noelle takes a breath, and continues. “And I’m terribly fond of you.”

Her tone is soft, and and laced with a feeling Noelle had been trying to hide. There is no way to miss the implication in her words. Cullen seems either unwilling, or unable, to speak, and it doesn’t take long before Noelle begins to feel as if she’s made a mistake. She hadn’t intended to startle him so much, but she also hadn’t intended to sound quite so obvious.

“I’m…you don’t need to respond, or reciprocate, I just wanted you to know it would take a great deal more than this to scare me off.” Face flushing, she begins to withdraw her hand. There’s a catch in her throat she wasn’t expecting, and her smile is so flimsy it shakes. She has every intention of excusing herself quickly, going to drink whatever’s left of her brandy and hope that’s the end of things, but before she can get her hand away Cullen is twisting his to intertwine and her fingers and hold her hand in place.

“Noelle-” he trails off. His voice is throaty, expression focused. “It’s not that I don’t.” He swallows thickly, and Noelle feels her chest tighen. Cullen makes a frustrated sound and runs his free hand through his hair. “That is to say, I feel the same way. I just…I just didn’t think it was possible.”

“Why not?” Noelle’s voice is barely above a whisper. His hand is warm in her hers, and his calloused fingers hold on tightly as if it’s grounding him.

Cullen sighs. “You’ve hardly seen me at my best, Noelle. And though I’d hoped – I just never thought you would. You’re _you_ , and...well.” Cullen says 'you' with such meaning, as if she’s something wonderful to him. Cullen groans. “Christ, I’m doing a terrible job of this. What I’m trying to say is, I never saw myself here. With…anyone, really, let alone someone like you.”

Noelle’s heart could easily leap out of her chest in this moment. She takes a tentative step forward, waiting to gauge Cullen’s reaction. When he doesn’t seem to freeze, or panic, she lifts her hand to rest it loosely on his chest. “Well,” she manages with a breathy laugh. “We’re here now.”

Cullen chuckles too. He tilts his head slightly. “We certainly are.”

This close, Noelle can feel the warmth of his body, see the small curve his lips, and the soft look in his eyes. They’re terribly close, toes nearly touching. Somehow it’s both similar and completely different from Leliana’s dressing room earlier today. The anticipation is more palpable now.

And, Noelle feels brave enough to do something. To slide her hand up Cullen’s chest to caress his cheek and slide through his hair. She thinks her hand might be shaky, all full of jittery nerves she suspected she’d grown out of. Cullen briefly leans into the touch before starting to stoop lower, and then lower, until his nose brushes Noelle’s.  
Noelle can’t remember ever wanting to be kissed quite this badly. Her eyes flutter shut.

And then the window slides open.

Cullen stills, still temptingly close to Noelle, and Noelle feels a surge of disappointment. Dorian is sticking his out the window, expression stuck somewhere between delight and embarrassment. “Bull tore his stitches,” Dorian says, and Noelle wonders if this has anything to do with how mussed Dorian’s hair is.

Cullen’s heaves a frustrated sigh. Noelle hears him mutter “already?” under his breath. He sounds no less irritated when he addresses Dorian. “Fine. I’ll be right there.”  
Dorian nods, then ducks back inside. There’s no way he missed what was happening here, he’s hardly that oblivious, and his interruption has left noticeable space between Noelle and Cullen. Both stare at their feet, unsure entirely what to say.

“You should go,” Noelle says, rubbing the bridge of her nose to hide the flush in her cheeks.

“Yeah.” Cullen says absently. “Yeah, right.” Slowly, he turns to leave.

Noelle slumps back against the railing and tilts her head towards the sky, feeling disappointment hit her again like a wave. This is hardly her first kiss, and it’s not as if she’ll never see Cullen again, so the interruption isn’t the worst thing that could have happened to her. Logically, she knows that’s the truth, but there is a very large part of her that wishes the sky would open up at this moment and swallow her whole. It would, at the very least, spare her a conversation with Dorian. Noelle straightens up.

Cullen is standing halfway between the window and Noelle, paused as if frozen in place.

“Cullen,” she says. “It’s fine, you can go if you need too.”

And as if her words had broken some sort of dam, Cullen turns round and comes crashing into her. His lips are on hers within seconds, both hands cupping her face. There’s an intensity to this Noelle was not expecting, Cullen’s kissing her as if he’s putting everything into it. It’s not soft, or sweet, or chaste; instead, Cullen is sucking on her bottom lip and urging Noelle into it. It takes Noelle a moment to process the situation, but the minute she does she’s grabbing at his hips and opening her mouth. Cullen moans against her lips. God, she'd forgotten how good it felt to be kissed. Especially like this. Especially by Cullen.

It’s over too quickly.

Cullen pulls back, breathless and almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he says, as if isn’t sure what came over him.

“No.” Noelle shakes her head. She feels equally winded. “That was…nothing to apologize for.”

“Oh.” Cullen smiles. “Good.”

He looks so relieved, as if he genuinely believed Noelle wasn’t going to enjoy that, and Noelle leans forward to kiss him again. Their lips have just barely met when there’s a rapping on the wall.

Dorian leans out the window. “If he bleeds out, it’s on you two.”

Cullen chuckles. To Noelle, he says, “Duty calls.”

Noelle lingers outside for a moment after Cullen’s left, trying to still her beating heart. Absently, she smiles and touches her lips.

 

 

 

It doesn’t take long for the evening to wind down after. Cullen patches up Bull, and Noelle makes the executive decision to allow Bull to use her bed, and once Bull is settled Dorian and Cullen assist Noelle with doing their best to clean the rest of the place. Dorian approaches Noelle while she’s getting water, a coy smile playing across his lips. He folds his arms over his chest, and rests his hip against the counter.

“So,” he says slowly, drawing it out even though it’s apparent what he’s about to say. “You and Cullen?”

“So,” Noelle responds, matching his tone. “You and Bull?”

Dorian only looks confused for a moment. When the realization dawns, he quickly grows flustered, and with a bit of a sputter, he turns to leave. “Good night Noelle.”  
That’s the last they talk that night. He quickly retreats to Noelle’s room with Dorian. The moment they’re alone, Cullen moves to stand near Noelle. He rests his hand on her arm, squeezing it softly.

"You should rest too," Cullen says quietly. "It's been...quite a night."

Noelle is inclined to agree, because lord does she want to close her eyes and sleep, but instead she sighs. "It has been, hasn't it? But I still have an article to write. We need it done in what..?" Noelle trails off to check the time. "Three hours? Sleep will need to wait."

Cullen contemplates this. "I'll make us some coffee, if you can show me where everything is."

Noelle is hardly going to say no to a pot of coffee, so she allows Cullen to brew a pot while she types away at her typewriter. Cullen leaves her cup by her side, squeezing her shoulder again as he passes, before settling down in Noelle’s armchair with his own cup. He allows her to work in relative silence, barring the sound of Bull snoring lightly in the next room. Noelle writes until she can see the golden glow of dawn beginning to peek it’s way through her window, and it’s only then that she realizes it’s been some time since she’s heard any sound from Cullen.

She twists in her chair, but all she can see is Cullen’s legs, tucked up against his chest in her chair. So she rises, creeping over to peer at him. He’s dozing lightly, curled up in the chair with the cup of coffee still cupped in his hands. Noelle allows herself a fond smile. Then, stealthy as she can be, she removes the coffee from his hand and covers him with an extra blanket. He shifts in his sleep, murmuring something, but ultimately remains asleep. Noelle feels a surge of affection. She leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before returning to her typewriter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout-out to Terion, for pointing out the litany of errors in the chapter (apparently bits of the chapter's first draft worked their way into the final one). Thanks so much!
> 
> Also, I'm doing Nanowrimo this year, so if any of y'all are trying it out, feel free to add me as a buddy (I'm TrouserFreeTuesday on there as well).


	16. Chapter 16

_**SKYHOLD QUARTERLY** _

_**APRIL 24, 1947** _

_**NEWS** _

_**EMPRESS ANNOUNCES TOUR OF AMERICA** _

_Last Saturday, at a public press conference in front of city hall, Empress Celene of Orlais announced plans to travel across America, visiting a grand total of ten states over the next month. At the time of printing, Empress Celene had arrived in Washington to meet President Truman. Following that, Empress Celene will travel down to California. In a months time, she intends to be back in New York to enjoy the sites of our lovely city._

 

 

 

It’s a rowdy night at the Hanged Man. A big brass band is on the stage, trumpeting out an uproarious tune that has almost half the place on their feet on the dance floor. As such, the basement bar is warmer than it ordinarily is. Most have shed their jackets at this point. Even Dorian has left his on the seat next to Noelle.

Noelle sips idly at her drink and stares at the crowd on the dance floor.

Across the table from her, Leliana leans forward to rest her elbows on the table and raise an eyebrow, before turning her gaze back to the dance floor. “They’re quite cute, aren’t they?” She asks.

Dorian could easily have blended into the crowd were his dance partner not nearly a head taller than everyone else. Dorian and The Iron Bull dance on the edge of the crowd, one of dozens of couples. With a loud laugh, The Bull spins Dorian before dipping him down. Once upright, Dorian smiles and swats playfully at Bull’s chest.

Noelle chuckles. “You’re telling me.”

Since learning the truth about Dorian’s situation, he’d become more honest almost overnight. Naturally, some secrets needed to be kept, but bringing up Bull in conversation wasn’t like pulling teeth with him anymore. It didn’t take a psychic to see that Dorian Pavus was smitten. He’s been trying to play it off, sure, but Noelle can tell. There is only so much needling Noelle could get in, though. One too many words about how Dorian was flushing and the conversation would suddenly turn to Cullen.

Noelle stirs her drink with her finger.

With a fond smile, Leliana stares out the dance floor. Not that Leliana and Noelle go out together often (in truth, even tonights meet-up had been rather accidental), but by now Noelle had noticed Leliana rarely danced herself, and instead would stare somewhat wistfully at the dancing couples. Noelle had asked about it, once, and Leliana had just smiled in that coy way of hers and said she was missing the right partner. There was a sadness in the smile that made Noelle hesitant to question further.

“Anyone taking you dancing lately, Miss Trevelyan?”

Noelle panics momentarily. Leliana’s head is titled to the side - politely inquisitive, but her smile is all mischief. She knows. “No,” Noelle says, perhaps too quickly. “Haven’t quite had the time these days, surely you know how that is.”

“Of course.” It’s clear Leliana isn’t buying it. She smirks, but mercifully doesn’t press the matter.

There is a pause between songs, and in the silence Bull’s laugh rings out.

With a grin, Noelle leans forward, elbows on the table and fingers laced together. “What brings you out tonight, Leliana? Aren’t you too busy fielding off interview requests?” Though the Empress’s concert may not have gone as planned, at the very least Leliana got something out the bargain. As far as any outside press was concerned, Lady Leliana’s private concert was a glimmering glimpse into the life of a queen, and at least four papers had clamoured to hear her account of the evening. Upsettingly, Leliana’s version of events is ten times better than Noelle’s.

Leliana laughs lightly. “My old trumpeter is in the band,” she says, nodding in the direction of the stage. “He’s quite good, no?”

Noelle as to agree. In the far back, shadowed behind the singer and the bassist, is a man in a hat playing the trumpet with every ounce of passion he has. Though his face is obscured by the hat, and the haze of smoke filling up the basement bar, Noelle can vaguely recall seeing the man performing with Leliana before. It would seem she’s performed with scores of people before. The Louis Reid Trio had been completely new to her. “Say, Leliana, can I ask you a question?”

“That depends entirely on what the question is.”

“What do you know about the assassination attempt on Celene?”

“As much as you, Noelle,” Leliana says, with a shrug. “I’m hardly part of the Orlesian court anymore.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Noelle chuckles. “I have a hard time thinking that Lady Nightingale, even retired, doesn’t have her fingers some pies still.”

Lady Nightingale was the pseudonym of a spy during the war. A sort of luxurious, shadowy figure who traded in silver-tounged secrets and thinly veiled threats. No one has ever revealed her true identity, but that hasn’t stopped everyone from guessing. Noelle included.

Leliana’s expression doesn’t falter. “Lady Nightingale? What gives you that idea?” Leliana’s not incredulous at the suggestion, simply curious. Which is encouraging for Noelle, because this is theory she’s never properly fleshed out. Noelle takes a steadying breath and barrels ahead. 

“Do you remember one of the first times I interviewed you? It was during the war, when we were both in London. I think it was the night after the bombing raid, and you had a caller right before our interview was set to start. So, you stepped out. And I may have taken the opportunity to look around.” See, even then, Noelle had an inkling that Leliana was more than just the lounge singer she claimed to be. Still, Noelle has the decency to look ashamed at the admission. Confusingly, Leliana, instead of looking upset, looks almost impressed. “It was a remarkably well-kept flat, if I recall correctly. But I found the strangest thing - tucked away inside of a book on the vanity: a stick of purple wax. I found it strange then, but I didn’t think about it further. Until a few months later, that is, when someone let it slip that Lady Nightingale would use a purple wax seal on her letters.” Noelle lets the silence hang to gauge Leliana’s reaction.

After a pause, Leliana lets out a small laugh and says, “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Is it really though?” Noelle takes a sip of her drink. “You’ve always been remarkably in-the-know about political dealings most musicians wouldn’t have a clue about, _and_ all of your tips to the Quarterly have been remarkably on point - and you can’t deny that it’s you, the whole writers pit has figured that out by now. Besides, purple wax is a bit of an odd thing to be carrying around.” It's not as if wax seals are incredibly common these days.

“It could just be a lot of coincidences, Noelle.”

“It could,” Noelle concedes. “But it’s not.” She struggles to keep her face straight under Leliana’s unwavering gaze. This is the test - is she breaks, or shows any doubt, Leliana can laugh her way out of it. So Noelle takes a calming breath and arches an eyebrow.

“Well,” Leliana says after a considerable pause, “I suppose Lady Nightingale would likely have some thoughts about the matter.”

It’s as close to as admission as Noelle may ever get, and she isn’t lost on how much it means that Leliana acquiesced so easily. “Anything she’s willing to share?”

Leliana’s lips curve into a coy smile, and there’s a sparkle in her eye. Noelle had forgotten how frightening Leliana’s enjoyment of this sort of thing could be. “I’d think Lady Nightingale would know to avoid being interrogated by journalists.”

Noelle stops herself from sighing. Bargaining is always the tricky bit. She doesn’t have the money to sway Leliana, and she’s hesitant to resort to blackmail (because Lord knows what dirt Leliana has on her), but then what does she have?

Tickets to see a film tomorrow evening with Cullen, three old breath mints, and small tidbits of rumours from the office. And then, she has it.

“And I would think,” Noelle replies, “that, being the charitable lady she is, Lady Nightingale ought to be concerned about that charity benefit so many of her friends performed at.”

Leliana seems to warm at this.

Information for information. It’s a fair enough trade, surely.  

Leliana nods, ever so slightly, and Noelle continues.

“For the all the whopping success the Crestwood Benefit was, I suspect no one knew  that the mayor was about to sell the Sanitorium everyone was fighting to save. The money raised likely helped pay for some the repairs but I that sanitorium isn’t going to last forever. Hundreds of people likely donated their money to what amounts to little more than a sinking ship.”

“And how did you come by this information, Noelle?” Leliana cocks her head to the side.

“A lady must keep some secrets. Surely you understand that.”

Largely, Noelle just wants to avoid admitting to snooping yet again, lest she never be allowed anywhere alone again. Still, Leliana seems to understand, and laughs softly.

“Of course.”

Glasses clink behind Noelle. A toast, presumably.

It’s a mercy for the band’s loud music. It can drown out nearly everything, and were Noelle not listening carefully surely Leliana’s words would have been become a part of the general cacophony.

“Unfortunately, I’ve no idea who tried to take the Empress’s life.” Leliana leans back, a furrow appearing in her brow. “The problem in Orlais is there’s often too many options. Likely, Celene assumes the attempt was made by someone hired by Gaspard. They’re at each other's throats more often than not. However, some are saying it’s a sort of double bluff - that Celene orchestrated the attempt to implicate Gaspard.” Leliana pauses to take a sip of her drink- red wine, the most expensive kind the Hanged Man sells (it is still comparatively very cheap). “I will be honest, though, Noelle, both of these options seem a little far-fetched to me. Gaspard may scoff at Orlesian traditions, but a simple poisoning is low-brow, even for him. And a fake assassination, here?” Leliana scoffs. “There’s too few people to make _that_ worthwhile.”

“So what do you think happened then?”

“I think it’s someone else, personally, but there truly is no accounting for the complexity of a good Orlesian assassination. There are enough political factions in Orlais to make the possibilities worryingly hard to narrow down.”

Noelle sighs. “You don’t suppose Celene herself would be willing to tell my anything?”

“The interview comes with strings, Noelle. An assassination attempt on vacation is hardly the publicity stunt she intended.  There is a very good chance her willingness to speak with you will lower if you don’t keep quiet about these matters. Best not to get too caught up in a story you can’t publish, no?” Leliana offers up a shrug. “However, she’ll follow through with her interview, I promise you that.”

Noelle snorts. “You’re the expert. Want another drink?”

 

 

 

 

Noelle only stays for a few drinks more. Hawke arrives, with his usual bravado, and made himself at home at the bar and chattering away with Corff (who, for his part, looked as if he wanted nothing to do with it), and then The Iron Bull and Dorian and become uncomfortably handsy, so Noelle catches a cab home. 

It isn’t all that late when Noelle gets back to her apartment, so once she’d kicked off her shoes and changed into pajamas she pulls a chair up next to her phone and calls Cullen. Briefly, as she’s being connected, she panics as she realizes Cullen may not, in fact, be awake. He’s such an insomniac normally that Noelle would feel terrible if she interrupted any sleep he may have been getting. Noelle twirls the phone cord around her index finger.

It only takes a few rings for Cullen to pick up. “Hello, Cullen Rutherford speaking.”

“Cullen!” Noelle says, smiling despite herself. “It’s Noelle. I didn’t wake you?”

Cullen snorts. “Hardly. How was your evening? Weren’t you out with Dorian?”

“I was, I just got home." Noelle pulls her legs up into her chest, and talks about her evening. About how smitten Dorian is, about the Hanged Man being busy, and about running into Leliana. "She had some...interesting opinions on this Orlais situation, Cullen. I'll have to tell you all about it tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," Cullen says. Noelle smiles. 

"Did you have a good evening?" Noelle asks, after a beat.

It's a hit or miss question to ask, normally. Cullen is, apparently, very good at toughing bad days out at work and then completely shutting down at home. Today is a good day, and Cullen tells her all about the food he's picked up to cook for dinner before the movie tomorrow. At the end of it, Cullen pauses and laughs to himself. "I'd invite you for coffee tomorrow but I suspect half of the Quarterly is already getting ideas."

Noelle laughs too. "We can't have that, now, can we?"

Not telling the office had been a joint decision. Notorious gossips that they are, the Quarterly knowing would only lead to more trouble. And far more prying questions. There were further matters of journalistic integrity, but largely it's fueled by a desire to keep Varric a step away from their personal lives. Deep down, Noelle is well aware that tongues had been wagging for some time, but since Varric primarily communicates through innuendo and pointed stares, it’s pretty easy to play dumb. Each time Noelle catches Varric winking at her when she leaves Cullen’s office, she winks back as if that’s just the kind of relationship they have now. 

It's the same thing the next day. But this time Noelle has a plan.  Noelle arrives in the office, two cups of coffee in hand. She heads for her desk, stepping around Rylen, who is gesticulating wildly while talking to Dennit, and smiles politely as she passes Varric. With his phone tucked in the crook of his head, Varric trails off mid-conversation to arch an eyebrow at Noelle. "For someone special?" He asks, holding a hand over the receiver.

Noelle nods. With a wink, she slides her second cup of coffee on Varric's desk. Disappointingly, this doesn't render Varric speechless, but there is a moment of surprise before Varric takes the coffee. "Awh, shucks, pinky." Mockingly flattered, he places a hand over his heart. And then his attention is back to his phone, and the daily grind begins. 

For better or worse, Noelle is still on entertainment, so she makes it to her desk only to find Ritts waiting with a proposed review of some new western flick Noelle hasn't heard of, and two tickets to Zither's newest show on her desk.  Ritt's review is basically ready for print, so that's easy enough to deal with, but the Zither situation is a whole other problem. 

"Look," Noelle tells Ritts and Ellandra. They share a desk in the corner of the room, tucked away in the dimly lit back. The lighting here makes everyone look sickly and gaunt. "I've got good news and bad news." Both women tilt their head to the side in a motion so startlingly synchronized that Noelle suspects they've been sitting together too long.

"The good news is that Zither has quit music." Noelle lets the information hang for a minute. "The bad news is that he's gone into magic, and he's sent us two tickets to his first show. Unfortunately, he's about ten times more irritating when we don't go then we give a bad review. So. At least one of us needs to go." Unsurprisingly, no one jumps on this right away. "I'm willing to barter, though. Pick a sibling you hate, bring them with to Zither, and I'll let you cover the red carpet gala at the Palace Theater in a month."

Not only is it one hell of a deal, it gets Noelle out of two responsibilities. Just as Noelle turns to let the women fight over things, Cullen steps out of office and clears his throat. Slowly, like dominoes falling over, silence falls across the room.

"Good morning everyone," Cullen says loudly. "Anderson's out sick, someone has to take up the police beat today - we've already missed a break in at the Therin Imperial Bank. Varric, I want you to take care of that. You're friends the police chief, get a good statement. There's also a rumour that bookies are taking illegal bets at Roosevelt Raceways, I'll let you fight over who gets the job but someone needs to be by there for the eleven o'clock race." Morning scrums have become less common as of late, almost everyone has a story they're working on or has been handling things on their own. Seeing Cullen barking out instructions is almost comforting now. It's a return to normal than Noelle hasn't seen since Haven. "Cassandra, can you get in touch with any of your remaining contacts in the Seeker? It's been long enough that the Quarterly could use a follow up. Thanks. Noelle, can I speak with you privately for a moment?"

He's all business about it but Noelle still flushes. She nods. "I'll be right there."

After tucking Zither's tickets away in her desk, Noelle pointedly ignores the looks Cassandra and Varric are giving her and steps in Cullen's office. 

"You wanted to speak with me?" Noelle asks, closing the door behind her.

Cullen closes the space between them quickly, pressing a kiss to her lips. "I did. Good morning." He smiles. The newness of this has yet to wear off, so each kiss leaves both of them flushed and giddy. And, in Noelle's case, wanting so much more.  The best way Noelle can think to explain it is akin to opening a floodgate. As though suddenly Noelle is allowed to act on the impulses she'd squashed before, and now that's all she wants to do. She brushes her fingers along Cullen's temple, taking no small delight in how he leans into it. 

Then, she kisses him again. "Good morning to you too." Her hands rest at the back of Cullen's neck, holding him there. Cullen, tentatively, loosely rests his hands just above her hips. For how tremendous Cullen is with his mouth, he's far too respectful with his hands.  Noelle takes a step closer, so they're almost pressed together.

"So," Cullen says, nipping at her bottom lip, "I'm going to need a review of  _The Gentleman's Agreement_ on my desk by Thursday morning." A teasing smile twists at the corners of his lips. 

Noelle laughs. It's wildly unfair how weak at knees this makes her.  "Oh, is this a work discussion?" 

"Not completely." Cullen shrugs lightly. "I'm  _also_  going to need you to forgive my appalling attempt at making you dinner tonight."

"Should I also leave a review of that on your desk?" Noelle teases. 

"Preferably not!" Cullen winces.

Gently, Noelle cards her fingers through Cullen's hair. "I'm sure it'll be delicious." Cullen frowns, clearly unconvinced. "And," Noelle adds jokingly, "on the rare chance it's not, we can offer it to Hawke."

Cullen snorts, but without as humour as Noelle would have liked. "There's an idea. It's just...I haven't cooked dinner for anyone in a long while." Cullen pauses and looks askance. In a slightly softer tone, he continues. "I haven't done  _any_ of this in a long while. I just...I'd rather not make a mess of things."

"Cullen." Noelle isn't sure she's ever met a sweeter man. Worrying about  _her_ opinion on cooking, as if she has a single ounce of culinary skill. She kisses his cheek. "You haven't bungled a thing. Even if you gave us both food poisoning that wouldn't change things."

This draws a less anxious laugh from Cullen. "You say that now." He takes a step back, but grabs Noelle's hands as he steps away. His hands are warm covering hers, and he stares at them as he speaks. "But thank you, Noelle."

Noelle squeezes his hands. "Of course. Although, if I may offer one point of suggestion?" Her tone is teasing, and she doesn't intend to worry him, but he still tenses. "Don't use kisses to bribe me into talking about deadlines." She grins at Cullen. After a moment, Cullen laughs. 

"That's a shame," Cullen says, a twinkle in his eyes. "I've found it a  _very_ easy way to get your attention."

"What, praytell, are you saying about my character, Mr. Rutherford?" Before Cullen can answer, she's tugging on his hands to pull him against her. A deep kiss cuts of any attempt of Cullen's to respond. It's completely true that Cullen's proven to be an easy distraction point for Noelle, but Noelle's pretty sure the opposite is true as well. After a moment of surprise, Cullen accepts the situation willingly. One his hands rests at the small of her back, the other gently cups the side of her face as Noelle presses herself against them.

They're both so lost in this that they miss the initial knock on Cullen's door, and it takes until Cassandra clears her throat for them to pull apart. It's difficult to say who's turned redder. Cassandra, standing disgruntled in the doorway, is flushing a furious shade of red, Cullen's ears have turned the colour of cherries, and Noelle's face feels like it could burst into flames. Everything in her chest seems to freeze.

"I-" Cullen starts, falteringly. "Uh. Cassandra. How can I...uh..help you?"

All Noelle manages to do is wave. 

Cassandra starts to say something before immediately reconsidering it. "I'll come back later," she says sharply. A silence descends on the room  as Cassandra leaves. The door doesn't shut fully so the full sound of the Quartely fills up the empty air between Cullen and Noelle. Both are having a tremendously hard time looking at each other. Just as Noelle feels her composure coming back, however, she hears Cassandra speak.

"Here's the money I owe you, Varric," she says, and Noelle and Cullen exchange a startled look. They _weren't_. "You were right." 

Fucking Varric, Noelle thinks. Of  _course_ they were betting on this.

"So much for keeping it a secret," Cullen says weakly. 

Noelle chuckles. "It was a good run." Eye contact with Cullen just brings back the same rush of heat followed by stomach-dropping embarrassment. She drops her gaze to the floor. "I should probably...get back to work." Or go lie down under her desk and pretend to not be there.

"Yeah," Cullen agrees. "I should..." and gestures vaguely towards his desk.

Once Noelle begins to leave, though, Cullen speaks up again. "Noelle?"

"Hm?" Noelle looks over her shoulder Cullen. His cheeks are still red, and making eye contact with Noelle seems like an effort, but he does it nevertheless.

"See you tonight?"

Noelle smiles. "I wouldn't miss it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, and it's mostly fluff, but I think after 2016 we all need a bit of cuteness.   
> Also! Hey! I'm alive! And still writing when school gives me enough of a breather too.  
> Hope everyone had a happy holidays and a great New Year! <3
> 
> Apologies for any glaring grammatical errors - putting this up between two family get-togethers.


	17. Chapter 17

**The Golden City**

_May 1st, 1947_

 

**_REPUTABLE BUSINESS BESIEGED BY BRAWLING THUGS_ **

_Local night-club, The Pearl - known watering hole of politicians, and recently, visiting royals, has had a string of police calls as a result of low-lifes who have begun to cause trouble. The owner of The Pearl, Mrs. Sanga, stated that the recent rise in crime has been scaring customers away._

_Mrs. Sanga has been an active member of the community for years now, making frequent donations to both political campaigns and galas, as well as charitable police initiatives, and it is a shame to see her business and reputation tarnished by little more than common hoodlums._

_Mrs. Sanga insists that any implications of lyrium as a motive behind these crimes is purely speculation._

 

Try as the Quarterly journalists might, keeping work talk out of their poker nights always seemed to be a lost cause. Tonight they’d made it a solid twenty minutes, though most of that twenty had been spent trying to wrangle in a Red Jenny waitress to serve them coffee. Once the coffee is poured and the cards are dealt, however, Varric makes pointed comment about just how much time Noelle is spending in Cullen’s office.

At that point, Noelle _deliberately_ steers the conversation sharply into work territory.

“It’s suspect, that’s all I’m saying,” Noelle says, trying not to frown at the cards in her hand. Unless she develops the ability to fool Varric _and_ Dorian quickly, there’s a good chance she’s losing this hand. With a poorly stifled sigh, she lays the cards face-down on the table.

Next to her, Dorian raises an eyebrow. It’s unclear if it’s a response to Noelle’s statement or her reaction to the cards. Keeping eye contact, Dorian slides a handful of chips towards the middle of the table, the chips toppling and rolling over each other. It’s a significantly larger amount than he’s bet all night. Noelle frowns.  He’s got to be bluffing.

Now, to be clear: public, unlicensed gambling is _very_ illegal. But, as anyone at the table would tell this, this is, in fact, not gambling at all. No money is really changing hands tonight (however, Varric takes detailed notes and losing becomes tantamount to buying a round of drinks for everyone later).

It’s unlikely the cops that frequent the Red Jenny would even bat an eyelid at the Quarterly staff’s activities (The Red Jenny has frequently been host to worse activities), though Varric reminds them often that you can’t be too careful. It’s such a deviation from his regularly blase attitude that Noelle’s pretty sure Varric’s been in trouble for illegal gambling before.

“It is...odd,” Cassandra agrees slowly, likely happy to be moving away from office gossip.  “But the Quarterly isn’t a tabloid, and we shouldn’t treat it as such.”

“The tabloid approach is sure as hell working for _The Golden City_. You saw the story they ran on Madame de Fer’s alleged affair, didn’t you?” Varric says, idly shuffling his cards. Though by all accounts he seems completely careless, a flicker of irritation slips into his tone. “Shit flew out of the newsies hands faster than anything I’ve written.”

“We’re not the _City_ , Varric.” Cassandra’s tone is curt. “And I don’t see why the night life of a city councilor is any of our business.”

Noelle frowns. “It becomes our business when a councilman who continually grandstands about preserving the sanctity of marriage spends an _awful_ lot of time around a nightclub known for hosting adulterers. Political hypocrisy is hardly ‘tabloid’ journalism.”

“It’s hardly _news_ though, innit?” Sera asks, swinging by the table with a pot of coffee in hand. Casually, she rests her hip against the back of Dorian’s chair and refills their cups while she talks. “Some big tosser not putting his money where his ass is?”

“Mouth.”

“Mm?” Sera purses her lips, and glances at Dorian.

Across the table, Varric snorts and slides his cup across the table for Sera to refill.  Without breaking eye contact with Dorian, Sera fills the cup till it spills over slightly and pushes Varric’s cup back with enough force that more coffee sloshes over onto the chips.

“Putting his money where his mouth is,” Dorian says, a small furrow appearing in his brow.

“Same difference. Still, hardly earth-shattering, yeah?” As Sera cocks her head to the side, her frayed bangs fall in front of her eyes. Dorian tries to shove off the hand she’s moved to rest on his shoulder, but ultimately fails. Across the table, Cassandra is staring Varric down intently as if trying to deduce his cards. Varric smiles carelessly in return.

Noelle sighs. “That may be true. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do something. Almost anything is better than another review of Zither the Magician.”

Ellandra and Ritts had done their best to kindly review Zither’s most recent foray into the magic world, but there were few ways to sugarcoat “almost burnt down the The Orpheum”. Cullen had read her Zither’s characteristically indignant response over dinner several nights ago and hadn’t been able to keep his composure, which had led to Noelle nearly snorting wine all over the tablecloth.

Sera snorts. “Yeah, alright.” Slowly, Sera leans forward so her head is level with Dorian’s and squints at his cards. Dorian only grunts in protest. After a moment Sera makes a pained “oompf” noise, and stands up straight. She pats Dorian’s shoulder twice. “Good luck with that.”

Dorian makes an indignant noise.  In light of Dorian’s misfortune, Cassandra pushes two more chips forward, and cocks an eyebrow at Varric.

“Well,” Varric says with a laugh. “Looks like Sparkler is out, huh?”

“Ehhh.” Sera looks dismissively around the diner. It’s clear Sera does not have much work to do, and even if she did, she has no intention of doing it. It’s hardly a slow night at the Red Jenny, with the windows booths largely full and the tables surrounding the Quarterly staff are scattered with patrons. Though Noelle can’t see anyone currently looking for service, she can also see two other waitresses flipping through a magazine behind the counter and giggling to each other. Sera doesn’t appear to be particularly concerned about the matter regardless. “This is more fun. Deal me in, Varric?”

It’s rare Sera manages to sit through more than a hand, preferring to drink, or gossip, or even occasionally serve customers, but when she does play she cleans up. Noelle isn’t sure if it’s luck, or skill, or if Sera is cheating (though considering the crowd it’s almost definitely cheating). She ends her single hand with more chips than Noelle has had the entire evening, and leaves Dorian scowling at the air.

“You’re terrible,” he tells her, “You know that? At this rate I’m going to be buying Varric coffee for _months_.”

“‘S not my fault you’re bad at this.”

Dorian huffs. “Impossible.”

 

 

 

At the end of the night, Noelle’s lost ten dollars to Varric. She’s had worst losses, certainly, but it always stings. She spends far too long complaining about this to Dorian as he walks her home. They dodge puddles on uneven sidewalks on the way, keeping to the lit streets and giving a wide berth to the darkened alleys along the way. It feels as if the streets are growing more dangerous by the day. Not long ago there was an attempted murder not two blocks away from Noelle's apartment.

“It’s a shame Cullen couldn’t join us,” Dorian remarks idly. 

“He said it would be unprofessional,” Noelle says. “Frankly I think he’s just scared to lose to Varric.”

“A frightening thing indeed.” Dorian is silent for a short moment. “How are things going, you know, between you and our dear editor?”

The "never speak of this" they'd agreed upon was, clearly, short-lived. Noelle can hardly blame him, they're both far too nosey to let matters lie. “Are you asking as a friend, or as the office gossip?” Noelle teases. 

“Can’t it be both?” Dorian says, with a small shrug and a laugh. Carefully, he sidesteps a deep puddle. “For now, let’s say as a friend.” He offers up a smile, and bumps his shoulder into Noelle’s.

Noelle laughs. “Then, as a friend, things are perfectly fine.”

“Oh, come _on_." Dorian groans. "I’ve never seen Cullen this smitten with _anyone_ before, Noelle, you can’t expect me to be content with “fine”.”

“You’re going to have to be,” Noelle says, though she feels her stomach do a little flip at Dorian's words and there is a familiar heat warming her cheeks. They walk in silence for several moments until Noelle works up the nerve to ask: “He’s really smitten, though?”

“I almost hate to say it, but I suspect Cullen Rutherford may be genuinely happy.”

"Oh." Noelle smiles softly. 

“You look like you’re about to melt,” Dorian remarks wryly. “Shall I change the subject before become a puddle on the street?”

“Ha- _ha_.”

 

 

As silly as it is, Dorian’s words follow Noelle around the rest of the night and into the next morning, “smitten” echoing around in her head like the beat of a catchy song. She finds herself putting a bit more effort into pinning up her hair in the morning, an effort that even Noelle recognizes as mostly pointless.

Whatever it is she and Cullen are doing (she’d call it going steady if she wanted to feel a more like a teenager), it’s not like suddenly paying marginally more attention to her appearance will change much. He’s seen her in _much_ worse states and still seems to muster up the strength to kiss her, so ultimately this whole thing means nothing.

Noelle carefully applies her nicest lipstick.

 

There is a letter waiting for Noelle when she arrives at the Quarterly, on top of a stack of revisions and drafts. Her name is written on the envelope in fine, scrawling ink, and the smell of perfume starts to linger the moment Noelle opens the envelope.

On a gold-embossed formal letterhead is an invitation.

Noelle doesn’t waste time heading to Cullen’s office. Dennit, phone tucked into the crook of his neck, waves her past with a roll of his eyes. Inside, Cullen doesn’t appear to be particularly busy. He’s staring, fixedly, at the newest edition of _The Golden City_ with his reading glasses pushed up to his forehead and doesn’t look up as Noelle enters.

“Interesting article?” Noelle asks, arching a brow.

“Hm?” Cullen looks up. “Oh. Not particularly. It’s just - did you read what the _City_ wrote about The Pearl today?”

“Was that before, or after, the featurette about how lyrium cures cancer?”

Cullen snorts derisively. “After.”

“Can’t say I made it that far. What are they saying about the Pearl?”

“All kinds of things. Mostly about the Pearl is a _reputable_ business all of a sudden.”  
“That’s news to me. Weren’t three people shot there last week?”

“Technically, they were shot _outside_. Somehow that’s different.” Cullen shrugs. After a moment, he lets out a heavy sigh, crumbles the paper into a ball, and throws in the vague direction of his trashbin. It misses. “Anyway, can I help you?””

Noelle smiles. “Am I not allowed to just pop in to say hello?”

This draws a grin from Cullen. It's warm, but thin. This _City_ article must really be bothering him. “It’s certainly encouraged.”

“I got this-” Noelle throws down the invitation on top of Cullen’s desk, “In the mail today.”

Cullen picks the note up, frowning slightly as he reads it over. “A formal invitation to an interview, that’s certainly new. ‘May 7th, 7 P.M. Approved subjects only.’” Cullen scratches the bridge of his nose.  "Did she happen to include a list of proper subjects?”

“No. But I think ‘anything but the assassination attempt’ may be it.”

Cullen snorts. “That’s probably apt. This is good, though. Lord knows we need something like this.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. It is not the first time Noelle has noticed how genuinely worried Cullen is about The Golden City’s sales. They’re flashier, with snappier headlines and wild tales. It comes at the cost of the truth, but being even-keel has never sold well with audiences. Truth be told, Noelle doesn’t know how much their sales have gone down, and she’s almost afraid to ask. Even Varric's been tense lately. Noelle reaches across the desk to take Cullen’s hand in hers.

“It’ll be great.” She squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Trust me.”

Cullen only smiles wanly in return.

 

 

 

Noelle arrives at the Chateau early the next morning, as the misty fog is just beginning to dissipate. Still, the upper floors of the Chateau are mostly obscured, only the green tiles of the roof poking out above the mist. It’s like something out of a fairy tale, barring the eerie silence surrounding the building. It’s far too early for the rich and famous of New York to be up and about, and as a result there is only the distant rumble of rush hour traffic, and Noelle’s shoes clattering on the marble stairs. She wraps her coat more tightly around herself.

She’s not entirely sure what she hopes to find here. Really, she only plans on going in and asking about how, exactly, the hotel prepares for a royal visit, but good god she hopes there’s a thread of information she can tug and find something far juicier than catering and security information.

The Chateau’s lobby is near empty in the morning, only a tired concierge and a lone security guard leaning against a fluted marble column by a waning fireplace. The guard glances lazily at Noelle as she steps inside, and tugs at the collar of his black jacket. 

Noelle smiles pleasantly, and heads towards the concierge's desk. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, ma’am. Can I help you?” The concierge is a young man, hardly more than 23, with a freckled face and a wary expression. His purple hat is askew, likely more sloppy than the day staff would be free to get away with.There are bags under his eyes, and a near empty mug of coffee nearby.Noelle wonders if he’s been here all night.

“Yes, actually,” Noelle says cheerily, and the concierge flinches at her voice. “I’m Noelle Trevelyan, with the Skyhold Quarterly. Is it alright if I ask you some questions?”

The concierge appraises her with a frown. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, carefully as if he’d rehearsed this bit, “we can’t give away information on our guests.”

Which is, of course, expected. Noelle tilts her head to the side. “Of course. I was actually interested about the hotel itself. I understand that you’re currently entertaining some royalty, that must be something to get ready for.” Noelle leans forward, resting her arms on the desk. “I’m sure that kept the staff quite busy?”

This draws a snort out of the concierge, which he quickly tries to cover up with a cough. “The staff at the Chateau Val Royeaux are always prepared to go above  and beyond for our guests.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Noelle says agreeably. “Still. I’m curious about the process of preparing for such a visit. How much notice do you typically get, how much say do the guests get for their visits, who handles the catering, and security?” She smiles her most charming smile.

She honestly isn’t sure she’ll get anything out of the concierge. He’s young, and these places have strict policies. Likely he needs the job. Who doesn’t, these days? But there’s a flicker of something across his face, as if he’s been reminded of something.

“Well,” he says slowly, “the Val Royeaux can accommodate anything our clients request. We have world class cooks ready to prepare any cuisine, though many chose to provide their own security for...comfort reasons. You understand.”

“Naturally.” Noelle nods. “Is there-”

She is cut of the sound of the door opening and a familiar voice interjecting: “Miss Trevelyan?” Florienne stands in the doorway, head cocked to the side and smile wide. “What brings you out this way quite so early?” The guard quickly stands up at attention. Noelle wonders momentarily why he hadn’t bothered to do so when she entered. Of course, Florienne looks much more the part of Chateau guest than Noelle. Despite the early hour, Florienne is dressed to the nines. Her broad-shouldered blazer is fitted at the waist, flaring out at the hip to match the flare of her black skirt. An expensive looking diamond brooch is pinned to her jacket breast, with a similar pin on her wide-brimmed hat.

She looks far too put together for barely seven thirty in the morning. Likely she wasn’t out for a morning stroll, then.

“Just stopping in for a quick visit,” Noelle says, stepping forward to shake Florienne’s hand warmly. “I had some questions for the hotel staff.”

“Always the dedicated reporter.” Florienne flashes a blindingly white smile. “I trust the staff have been accommodating?”

At this, the concierge ducks his gaze away. Florienne doesn’t appear to notice, and instead looks at Noelle as if she’s sizing her up. Honestly, she probably is. 

“The staff have been lovely.” Noelle takes a step back. “Are you and your brother quite busy with Empress Celene gone?”

“I’m perfectly capable of occupying myself for several weeks. I’ve already been in New York for some time, after all, and there is no end to the nightlife. I’ve been quite taken by The Pearl, lately.”

Noelle, at first, assumes she has misheard Florienne. It isn’t unheard of for the rich and famous to visit dangerous places as a form of tourism, but surely Florienne is aware of the reputation of The Pearl. Danger aside, The Pearl is hardly a hotbed of respectability and class, and the Orlesian royal family has been _incredibly_ careful about their image while here. So, then, why is Florienne telling her this?

Seemingly oblivious, Florienne carries on: “And now that people are aware my dear cousin was in town, the press has _incredibly_ eager to speak with myself and Gaspard.” Florienne cocks her head to the side, and gives Noelle a look that seems to imply Noelle isn’t any different.

“I can imagine,” Noelle replies with a laugh. “It’s hard to pass up the chance to meet royalty, after all.”

Florienne chuckles. “As royalty myself, I cannot say I quite understand the appeal.” She pauses for a moment, thinking, before continuing: “If I may ask, what manner of question did you have for the staff? Nothing...untoward, I hope?” There’s a sort of smirk as she asks, as if she knows _exactly_ what Noelle hopes to find.

“Nothing of the sort!" Noelle waves her hand dismissively. She is generally hoping someone might reveal something untoward _to_ her, but she isn't going to ask outright. "Mostly, I was just curious about the amount of work put into preparing for such a grand visit. You know, catering, security, and the like.” 

“Well,” Florienne begins with a wink. “ _On_ the record, Chateau Val Royeaux has been nothing been wonderful with their catering. Their chefs have managed to recreate Orlesian food so well I could swear it came from my own kitchen. And my brother was in charge of security. As lovely as the Chateau is, the Empress’s safety is paramount.” Though her tone leaked with sincerity, something was off about her words. Perhaps it was the fact there had already been a security breach.

A guard enters the room through a door near the fireplace. This one wears a different uniform than the one in the lobby, a deep navy blue jacket with shining buttons on the lapel. Something about this man is familiar to Noelle, though she doesn’t place it until he speaks.

“Duchess,” he begins, with a small bow to Florienne. Though it’s hard to be sure, Noelle suspects this is the same guard watching her on stage from the night of the concert. The voice is certainly the same. From the quick look over he gives Noelle, she figures he’s just placed her too. Today, he wears no mask, and Noelle can see the starts of patchy sideburns on his cheeks and the mismatched colours of his eyes. How Noelle missed that earlier, she can’t be sure, but one eye is a deep green while the other is a stark and unsettling blue. “Breakfast is ready in your room.”

Florienne smiles. “Thank you.” She turns to Noelle. “A pleasure, as always, Miss Trevelyan.”

This time, Noelle is expecting the kiss that Florienne plants on both her cheeks. And then Florienne is gone, vanishing through the side door with the guard trailing behind her.

Noelle leaves the Château Val Royeaux with her mind racing. Gaspard hired the guards locally, which raises the question of when, exactly Gaspard arrived in New York? And, more importantly, why did not bring guards from Orlais? Political contention there surely couldn’t be so bad that bringing guards along would be a risk, could it?

And then there was the matter of The Pearl.

There were dozens of clubs and lounges Florienne had visited in the past several months (she knows because it’s been the cause of buzz in many of the smaller papers), so why did she choose to bring up The Pearl? Noelle can’t say she knows much about Florienne, but she’s definitely no fool, and this likely wasn’t an innocent slip.

There has to be more to it than that.

 

With purpose, Noelle strides into the Quarterly offices and through the writer’s pen, then makes an immediate beeline for Cullen’s office. She swings the door open, grabbing Cullen's attention. He's leaning next to his window, looking over the street, with his cup of coffee resting on the windowsill.  Noelle doesn’t give him the chance to speak, instead resting her hip against the doorway smiling coyly.

“How do you feel about going out tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh holy shit, I finished a chapter. Success!!


End file.
